


Gods and Monsters

by pineapplebreads



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (Not from Graves), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Credence is 18, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Graves is 40, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lots of Angst, M/M, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9031718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplebreads/pseuds/pineapplebreads
Summary: Credence is a broken slip of a thing, all sharp angles and protruding bones, barely there at all. Graves wants so very badly to help him, fix him. He just doesn't fucking know how, but damned if he won't try.





	1. Chapter 1

The boy is a slip of a thing: all sharp angles and protruding bones, barely there at all. His clothes hang off of his frame like overlarge rags, a spectre draped in funereal hand-me-downs. His shoulders are hunched inwards as though he's walking against a cold wind, his chin tipped against his chest and his arms folded around his thin frame. There’s a gash high on the crest of his cheek, dark with scabbed blood and surrounded in bright bruises. His hands are clenched, gripped white knuckled around his elbows, and his skin is riddled with scars and welts, bright red marks slashed across the flesh of his hands, crawling up his wrists and under his sleeve.

Percival’s breath catches in his throat, sharp against the burn of fury rising in his chest. He stands from behind his desk and turns stricken to Tina Goldstein, who hovers in the doorway of his office behind the boy. She bites her lip, eyes over-bright and shakes her head slightly. She slips out the door and closes it gently behind her, leaving him alone with the boy. He's still standing in the middle of the room, looking at his feet and immobile, eyes downcast beneath furrowed brows.

He's seen the boy before, in the halls during his daily patrols. He's the boy who is always alone, walking like a ghost through the halls, little more than an apparition the other students part around to avoid as though they could not bear to be near him. The boy who carries a darkness with him that's nearly tangible in its intensity, a touchable sadness.

Percival struggles to school his features. The boy doesn't need to see his fury, definitely doesn't need to see how upset he is; Percival will not project his rage, his _horror_. When he finally feels as though he can speak again, Percival clears his throat and it takes three tries before he manages to form coherent words.

“Please, sit,” he manages to say calmly. He mirrors the boy as he sinks into the seat opposite the desk between them. Percival forces himself to relax into the back of his own chair, unclench his hands from the curled fists he didn't even realize he was making. _Deep breaths, Graves._

When Tina had asked for his help with a problematic student, _this_ was not what Percival had expected. In hindsight, he realizes she must have been purposefully vague when describing the situation but a little warning would've been greatly appreciated. At the very least, so Percival could have schooled his features better when presented with the current situation. But he should've guessed, really.  

“Please, Graves,” she’d said earlier that morning, eyes large and earnest, hands actually clasped beneath her chin as she implored him. “This student really needs help. He comes from a difficult situation and he won't let me do anything about it. I've even talked to Queenie about him and tried to get him to at least go talk to her or one of the other counselors, but he refuses. And we can't just _force_ him. I'm at my wits end. I wouldn't be asking this of you if I thought there was anyone else who could help him more. Please please please, Graves, I'll owe you.”

And like a fool, curiosity and concern had won out and Percival had caved. He's always had a soft spot for Tina.

The boy sits across from him now, silent and still staring stubbornly at his feet. Percival clears his throat again, trying in vain to dislodge the lump in his throat.

“What's your name?” He asks, an easy question.

“Credence,” the boy replies to his lap. “Credence Barebone, sir.”

“Do you know who I am, Credence?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Credence nods at his knees. “You're Dean Graves.”

“Do you know why you're here today?”

Credence shakes his head vigorously, a stricken expression on his face, likely thinking he's in some sort of trouble, having been sent abruptly to the dean’s office during his lunch period. He still hangs his head low, twisting his hands in his lap and still refusing to look directly at Percival.

Percival steels himself. “It has recently come to my attention,” he begins, knowing he's already treading on eggshells, “that there have been worrying circumstances surrounding you. Your teachers have been noticing marks all over your arms.”

Credence instinctively curls tighter into himself and attempts to cover his hands in vain.

Percival swallows and continues. It's never easy to broach the subject of abuse. From his years of experience, Percival knows it can go in any of infinite ways, and none are pretty. But even with those years of experience, he already knows this will be an especially ugly case. He can read it from the line of tension in Credence’s body and the marks on his arms. Sometimes, the best approach is the most direct approach.

“Are you experiencing problems at home, Credence?”

The boy’s head finally snaps up to train wide, terrified eyes on Percival. And then within one moment and the next, the terrified look is gone, replaced by one of defiance with a hint of anger and steely resolve.

“No,” Credence says, with a tone of stubbornness Percival did not expect from the trembling boy.

He tries again. “Are you having problems at school with other students?”

“No,” Credence repeats.

Percival sighs inwardly. He knows it's a delicate situation – it always is, but it never makes it any less frustrating. He needs patience and care. Tread lightly. Here be dragons.

“I'm glad to hear that, Credence,” Percival says calmly, folding his hands in front of him. Credence’s eyes immediately flicker to his hands and Percival’s heart clenches a little when he sees the boy forcefully restrain an involuntary flinch. Percival feels very old and lost all of a sudden, unsure of how to proceed. Credence is hiding something, that much is clear, but forcefully trying to have him admit the truth will only shut the boy further into himself. He must be patient.

“How are your classes, Credence?” An attempt at levity, to give the boy a safe topic to talk about. In retrospect, Percival might have been better off starting there, he realizes, as he watches Credence hunch inwards once more. He's out of his depth; this is what he has counselors for, but apparently even they don't know how to handle this.

Credence’s brows draw up towards his hairline and he looks at Percival for a scant second before his gaze jerks to the left, just beyond Percival’s shoulder. “My classes are fine. Sir,” he adds as an afterthought. He pauses for a long moment. “Am I in trouble, Mr. Graves?”

Percival sighs again, this time aloud, and tries in vain to catch Credence’s eye. “No, my boy,” he says, stacking conviction behind his tone. The last thing he wants to do is to make Credence feel even more defensive. “You are not in trouble. Not at all.”

“If that's the case, may I be excused? I need to go to my next class.” Credence's eyes are narrowed slightly as he stands, his hands clenched into trembling fists by his sides.

“Of course,” Percival says softly after a long pause, knowing he won't get anything else from Credence that day. He rises to hold the door open. “Credence,” he adds and Credence pauses in front of him in the doorway, eyes downcast, head turned. The bruised cheek faces Percival and he has to forcibly refrain from reaching out, to press Credence to talk about how he got that gash, those bruises, those welts. He needs Credence to admit the abuse to help him, suffered at whoever's hands it may be. He swallows the demands, the words sticking heavy in his throat. “Please know that if you have any issues at home or at school, you are welcome to come talk to me or any of the counselors. We're here to help.”

Credence doesn't say anything as he walks away. After the door closes softly behind the boy, Percival slumps back in his seat and tilts his head against the high back of his chair, pressing his fists hard into his eyes. His hands are still pressed against his face when a knock sounds at his door, and knowing it's likely Tina, he grunts for her to enter.

Tina stands awkwardly in the entry and tiptoes her way in. “How did it go?” she asks hopefully.

“As well as you would think,” Percival replies, snappish.

Tina flops inelegantly into a chair without invitation and ignores his disapproving frown. “So not well at all,” she sighs. “It's his mother,” she says, chewing on her lower lip. “His sister has said as much. That one’s a piece of work, by the way, his sister Chastity. She's so– so _cruel_. I overheard her talking to her friends in the hall. She was saying how Credence deserves the whipping because he's impure and sinful. She's such a little bi–”

“Tina!” Percival finally snaps, cutting her off.

“Right,” Tina says, not sounding contrite at all. “Credence’s mother is a religious fanatic. She adopts all of these children, and they all live at this rundown church on the edge of town. It looks like a haunted house. It's so dark and gross looking, I drive by it to go to the shopping center. Actually, it looks downright unsafe to live in and–” she quickly returns to her original topic when Percival clears his throat pointedly. “So she adopts all of them; they have another sister, Modesty. She's not in high school yet. For whatever reason, their mother seems to hate Credence the most. Quite frankly, I haven't a clue why. He was in my social studies class last year and he's such a nice kid. Very smart too. We have to help him, Graves. You saw the bruises and marks. It's been getting worse. It wasn't this bad last year.” She turns wide, sad eyes on him.

“You didn't think to tell me all of this _before_ our meeting?” He glares until she looks down, cowed.

“I didn't want to give you any one impression of him before you met him.”

Percival rakes his hand through his hair and grimaces as his fingers catch in the pomade, trying to push away the headache growing in his temples. He turns to the laptop at his side and runs a search for Credence's file.

“Tina,” he says again. Tina sits up in her seat, slightly alarmed at his flat tone. “There is not much I can do to help him.”

“Why _not_?” she demands, her eyes flashing angrily.

“For the one thing,” he begins, still looking at Credence's file, “he's over eighteen. We cannot officially interfere with his home situation without his consent or explicit proof of abuse.”

He ignores Tina’s splutter of, “ _What?! Proof?_ Like anyone would think he whips himself?!”

He continues over her protests. “For the second thing, he seems very unwilling to cooperate.”

“How so?” Tina asks, all righteous spitfire.

“I tried talking to him. It didn't seem to get through to him and he wasn't willing to talk about any of the marks on his arms. He said no to everything. I even asked if it was a student. I can't just force a confession out of him.”

Tina gives him a long look, incredulous and a touch pitying. Percival can feel his own hackles rising, growing defensive and annoyed, the headache now a persistent presence.

“Oh, Graves,” Tina sighs. “Sometimes I forget how _bad_ you are with people.”

“Excuse me?” Percival says, miffed.

“In situations like Credence, you can't just _ask_ him, Graves!” she continues, ignoring him. “He would never outright just tell you, ‘oh yes, my mom beats me. Please help!’ He's been so downtrodden, he doesn't even know how to accept help when it's offered to him. He doesn't trust anyone! You have to be patient with him! That's the only way.”

“I don't see why your sister, _the head guidance counselor_ , isn't the one talking to him instead. That _is_ her job.” He tries not to sound petulant. He can already _feel_ new grey hairs coming into the already-present abundance at his temples.

“Of course Queenie _wants_ to, Graves,” Tina exclaims. “We tried that first! He wasn't even willing to _talk_ to her. He was silent the whole time he sat in her office. The fact that he spoke to you at all says a lot already. We think he responds better to authoritative figures, but we still don't want to push him too hard too fast. Really, Graves, we would not be asking this of you if we didn't think it was the best way. Credence needs help. He needs to be protected.”

Percival sighs, aching for a stiff drink. “I'll try, Tina.”

When Percival gets home that night, the first thing he does is pour himself a tumbler full of whiskey and knocks it back in three gulps before refilling it again, middle of the week be damned.

*

Credence sees Mr. Graves standing by the front steps the next morning as he's rushing to class, late again. Ma was in a bad mood that morning and he'd had to pay for it by walking to school after he made sure his sisters were fed and on the bus. She seemed to be in bad moods more often than not lately, and Credence wonders if it has anything to do with the new man who keeps coming by their church-turned-house, Mr. Grindelwald. Credence shudders at the thought of him.

There's just something _off_ there and the man makes him downright uncomfortable whenever Credence sees him so he attempts to keep a wide berth whenever he's over. He's been getting harder and harder to avoid recently, as he's seemed to have taken an interest in Credence. He lingers nearby at all times and Credence finds it hard to avoid him when attempting to complete his chores and Mr. Grindelwald always smirks, knowing Credence is uncomfortable and _relishing_ in it.

That morning, Ma had pulled him into the kitchen and told him he hasn't been upholding his Godly duties. His stack of missionary pamphlets have not been depleted enough this week, has he even been trying to hand them out? She had found the pile in his room and there were too many of them for her liking – for _God’s_ liking. What a sinful, disgusting creature, living under her roof without doing his share of the holy work. He does not deserve dinner that night, much less God’s eventual salvation.

Ma always said there is a darkness in Credence, something unholy and vile, something she's trying to save him from. Credence knows, he knows that he's ugly on the inside as well as the outside and Ma is right. This darkness that screams and howls inside of him, tearing at the hollow of his ribs and scrabbling at his throat, always, always threatening to escape must be contained. Ma’s way is the only way. Her way is God’s will.

She had used the wooden spoon across his knuckles that morning, leaving them red and sore, but luckily only three of them split and the bleeding has already stopped. Mr. Grindelwald was there, sitting at the kitchen table, watching with a mean gleam in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

Credence flexes his hands now, wincing at the ache and the cold, wishing he has gloves. He pauses for a moment as he's halfway down the schoolyard and keeps a wary eye on the dean as he strides quickly towards the steps.

Mr. Graves is tucked against the enormous stone staircase braced against the cold, his long woolen coat fluttering against his legs and his scarf flapping in the harsh winter wind as he stands with a cigarette between two fingers. The smoke curls in plumes that mix with the fog of the winter mist, a small white cloud that frames Mr. Graves’s face. He's staring intently as Credence approaches, expression unreadable.

Credence watches as Mr. Graves takes a another drag from the cigarette, his gaze following the smoke as it escapes from Mr. Graves’s mouth and is immediately whisked away by the wind. He almost misses what Mr. Graves says, intent as he is staring at his lips, which quirk up on one side slightly.

“Good morning, Credence.”

Credence drops his gaze immediately and mumbles a quiet, “G’morning, sir” back, fidgeting nervously with the collar of his threadbare coat. He looks up briefly to see Mr. Graves staring at his hands. Even as he tries to hastily stuff them in his pockets, Mr. Graves is faster and a large hand is closing around his wrist and halting his movement. He shudders at the feeling of a thumb sweeping whisper-gentle against the cracks on his skin, unnervingly soft and almost _kind_. Despite the loose grip, Credence is frozen in place, unable to pull away. He's also unable to help the involuntary flinch that jolts through his body and the natural response to shy away and curl into himself. Mr. Graves drops his wrist as though his hand has been burned and takes a deliberate step back.

Credence feels the familiar flood of panic well up in his chest and overflow into his throat until he's choking on it, his breath short and sporadic. He wants to run and hide but he's rooted to the spot like a deer in headlights, unable to look directly at Mr. Graves who is surely looking at him with disgust and pity. He doesn't want to see those expressions on his face. It was already bad enough when Miss Goldstein and her sister kept questioning him about his marks and bruises. He doesn't want to talk about it. Not now, not possibly ever.

When he finally forces himself to look at Mr. Graves, the expression Credence sees on his face is not one he was expecting. Mr. Graves is looking at him with something like anger that quickly disappears and is replaced by another look much softer than Credence deserves.

“Come, my boy,” Mr. Graves says, his voice soft like a sigh. He’s stubbing out his cigarette and already turning towards the door as Credence scrambles to match his stride. “I’ll write you a late pass.”

Their heels click loudly in the empty halls, a hollow clacking sound as each step strikes against the hard linoleum. Surely Mr. Graves can hear the thundering of his heart in the echoing quiet. Everyone’s already in class and Credence isn’t even sure how late he is; he has neither watch nor phone to tell the time. He follows Mr. Graves dutifully to his office and sits patiently as he scrawls out a note, his writing long and slanted, so squished together it's barely legible.

Mr. Graves pauses before he hands Credence the note, his fingers still splayed atop the paper on the wide desk between them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

This surprises Credence. He pauses, giving the question some thought as his heart pounds in his chest. Not a direct inquiry, but something like a request, as though Credence’s wants and desires matter in anything, as if any such consent matters in situations such as his own. While the question is phrased to give the impression of free will and the ability to deny and refute, Credence cannot help but wonder if it's a trap and if he says no, would Mr. Graves demand an answer anyways?

“No,” Credence says, part determination and part trepidation.

Mr. Graves gives him a long look, peering at him from beneath his dark brows. His expression is a mix of curiosity and a touch of frustration, as though Credence is a particularly difficult puzzle he's in the process of figuring out.

“Okay,” is all Mr. Graves says and he slides over the late pass.

Credence nearly upends his chair in his haste as he scrambles clumsily to his feet and rushes out the door with the note clutched in his hand. His heart is pounding between his ribs, and he can't help but feel as though Mr. Graves will call out to him at any given moment and demand that he stays and explains. He doesn't turn back as he hurries away and misses the way Mr. Graves frowns and raises a hand to push into the slicked top of his hair, the soft sigh that escapes his lips, and the way he suddenly looks much more tired than he did just moments before.


	2. Chapter 2

If there is one word anyone were to use to describe Percival Graves, many would agree it would be “regimented.” Percival is a man of strict schedule and habit, not usually one to deviate from his daily norms.

He wakes up precisely at five every morning and takes the dog out for a run, regardless of weather. The dog is a big dumb thing, with long black fur and floppy ears, some retriever of unknown pedigree, looks scarier than his jovial personality. He’s one of Percival’s very few soft spots; he’s not a man of many indulgences, save for the dog, tailored suits, the occasional cigarette, and his collection of books. The dog’s name is Hephaestion, because Percival is a lover of classics.

After his daily run, he comes home for a warm shower while coffee brews in the little French press on his counter. Percival hates the bitter taste of coffee but he is a practical man and he recognizes the need for caffeine to start his day as the adrenaline and ensuing endorphins from his run tapers off well before he leaves for work.

Every day, he has two eggs and one slice of toast for breakfast, drinks his coffee with more milk and sugar than actual coffee, reads the daily newspaper at his kitchen table and leaves his apartment at precisely six-thirty. He arrives at the school at seven every day, parks in his designated spot and begins the morning by reading the memos his assistant Lucy leaves on his desk and planning the rest of the day from there, usually locking himself in his office for long hours to deal with paperwork or patrolling the halls alone.

Percival is a man of specificity and somewhat of a loner. He prefers it that way. Which is why one of the things Percival does not tolerate is overt familiarity.

He hates it when people presume they can call him _Percy._  One of the English teachers tried it once. Abernathy. Percival promptly made sure he realized the error of his ways by never greeting him by the correct name, instead always referring to him by some variation of Tommy or Anderson. It would not do to seek overly close relationships with his colleagues, Tina notwithstanding, considering how she’s somehow managed to worm her way into his life and he has yet to figure out how to get her to leave.

Most of the deviations in his life as of late are all Tina’s fault and he is growing increasingly aggravated with her. She is the reason Percival finds himself taking an hour from his schedule before his lunch break to read and re-read Credence Barebone’s file and becoming increasingly frustrated with himself.

Not only is he breaking from his usual schedule, but he’s spending time he doesn’t actually have to familiarize himself with the record of a student that by all rights and means, he isn’t even obligated to help. But there’s something about the boy that brings out a fierce protective streak in Percival that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time and for once, he simply cannot help himself, formidable self-discipline dissipating in the wake of this case.

All Percival can think about is the Barebone boy. His situation has been plaguing him daily, racing his mind through whiplash emotions of rage at the one abusing Credence, disgust at the actual abuse, sympathy for the boy, the overwhelming need to protect him (which isn't so outside of how he wants to ensure the safety of all his students, right? That's his job), and the aggravating impasse of not knowing how to do so.

Percival starts seeing the boy like an apparition in the halls. He notices him lurking in the shadows, always standing on the fringes of other groups of students, always looking in with longing but never participating. He has yet to see him talk to any of his peers.

Credence Barebone looks to be a solitary soul and the loneliness drips from him like black drops of blood dripping from the wounded carcass of a dying animal, fetid and sickly, a disease that cannot be lanced from him. His aura of darkness is tangible in its intensity, a maelstrom of chaos waiting for a catalyst to ignite it and should it be set aflame, Percival doesn't know if any one of them would survive its wrath.

So Percival watches, keeps a wary eye on the boy, mostly due to some self-imposed obligation he's taken on ever since Tina Goldstein dragged the kid into his office and thrust the responsibility of the boy upon him, as though his salvation is hinged upon Percival's ability to save him.

The first thing Percival notices in his surveys is that Credence is far too thin. He nearly disappears in the overlarge hand-me-down sweaters he's always enshrouded in, shrinking into the funnel collars and too-long sleeves as though he's trying to make himself even smaller. He hunches like a baby bird unsure of its wings, too afraid to leap off the branch to fly and so instead, he simply stays put, unable to move. That's not to say he thinks Credence may be cowardly. Clearly, he's not, to endure the abuse he does without breaking any more than he already has.

And he _is_ broken, Percival knows. He can see the cracks in the boy’s facade, hairline fractures where the heavy burden of his natural darkness bleeds through, a steady trickle that pools at his feet and repels those around him. But Percival sees he has light and good in him too, far more than that inkling dark. Credence is a rare breed, far too good and innocent for the world and yet tainted by this depressive malaise that haunts him and dogs his steps.

The second thing Percival notices is how despite how Credence's peers avoid him like the plague, parting around him like water over a stone, adults take note of the boy and not always for kind reasons. Sometimes when Percival patrols the halls, he peeks into classrooms and on one such occasion, he sees Credence's math teacher berating him in front of the class, pointing at a long scrawl of equations on the blackboard. Pushing away his desire to step in, demand to know why humiliation is used as punishment,  _bullying_ from a position of power, he takes a step back and silently observes.

The third thing Percival notices is that Credence is anything but weak. The look he gives the math teacher, Mendelson, Percival thinks is his name, is enough to quail the bravest of souls. There's a fire that burns in the boy, a hidden strength not many can see. Most are too foolish and hubristic; they tend to think Credence's preferred silence is cowardice and acceptance. Oh no, he's simply biding his time, hiding his strengths until he's able to fully use them to his advantage. That's something Percival can understand and even admire.

He watches as Credence says something back to Mendelson. It must have been sharp and cutting because the teacher’s head jerks back as though in shock and he sees the expression mirrored in some of the congregated students. Perhaps proving why the teacher’s answer is wrong. Mendelson stares at the blackboard before he nods in grudging respect as Credence returns to his seat and Percival can't help a small swell of pride for Credence.

That night when Percival goes home to his too large apartment with his too large dog, his mind is still running circles around the thought of Credence Barebone. He usually makes it a point to leave all subjects of work where they belong. It's his habit to shed his duties at the school gates before he gets into his car and the very thought that someone has this much power and compulsion over him less than a week after meeting them is a rankling thought. For Percival Graves is a man of control and he does not  _appreciate_ the loss of it, small thing as it is.

He's still thinking of the melancholic cloud that surrounds the boy as he takes the Hephaestion out for their evening walk. He wonders if Credence gets dinner that night as he prepares his own meal. He hopes the kid won't be going to school late again the next day with new bruises as he prepares for bed.

Even his dreams are full of Credence and Percival wakes feeling annoyed and worried in equal parts. It's getting quite ridiculous, that he can be so consumed already, by a student who doesn't even want his help. And yet, he _wants_ to help, very badly. He hasn't felt such compulsion for anything in a long time, a new drive that feels very much like a new project, one he wants to complete to perfection, but also one he has no idea how to _start,_ much less finish.

And so Percival tosses his covers aside at four in the morning, much earlier than his usual schedule, unable to bear the thought of tossing and turning in bed for another hour. The sky is dark out still, chilly and misty. The sun hasn't started its sluggish grey trajectory up from between the forest of buildings yet.

He knicks his neck twice while shaving that morning, yet another hitch in his day and feels disgruntled by four-thirty. The mood only intensifies when Hephaestion decides to chase squirrels that day of all days. The dog is usually lazy and content enough to trot alongside him during his runs but something catches his attention that morning. Percival ends up tangled in the leash and nearly planting face-first into the concrete pavement before he manages to calm the dog. And then the toaster overheats and his toast burns. Percival scowls as he tips the burnt bread into the garbage and resigns to the fact that he's about to have a very bad day.

As he pulls onto the freeway at a quarter to six, he gets ensnared in traffic. It's some accident a couple of miles away that creates a long line of unmoving cars. Percival grits his teeth and feels the deepening agitation boiling inside of him. He somehow manages to get to work later than his usual seven o’clock, despite leaving nearly an hour earlier than his normal time.

His colleagues stay well out of his way after taking a look at his stormy expression and even Principal Picquery takes one look at him and sends him away, telling him she'll email him her notes instead of having their usual meeting. That's perfectly suitable for Percival, considering the mood he's in. It only gets worse when he realizes that no matter where he looks during his hall patrols, he does not see Credence Barebone.

*

Credence knows Mr. Graves is always watching. He sees him prowling the halls, roaming up and down like a lion surveying his domain. He walks in long loping strides, power thrumming all the way from the high tilt of his head to the ramrod line of his back. His expression is always impassive as he scans the hordes of students, as though he's constantly searching, which Credence supposes he is. He's looking out for signs of trouble during the patrols and sometimes Credence catches his eye by accident when he sees Mr. Graves in the halls and he makes sure to quickly look away.

The other students don't pay Mr. Graves any mind, save for the few throwing him admiring glances. The rest flow around him in ever-moving lines on their way to their classes and extracurriculars, jostling one another, raucous and lively. Those who come a step too close to him always make sure to quickly leap away, all too aware of the predator in their complacent herds. Not only are they aware of him as an alpha in their middling ranks, they're hyper aware of his power and his appearance. Mr. Graves is a very handsome man and teenage hormones have taken notice but very few souls are brave enough to do anything about it.

Their school is a small one perched in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, old and badly in need of repairs. There are cracks in many of the ceilings and the doors often stick and it would take more than one body to make them budge. Their equipment and technology are outdated, still running on old operating systems valiantly rattling their last breaths.

Credence often sees Mr. Graves scowling at these broken things as though he has a personal vendetta against all the ailments the school is suffering. Credence then wonders why someone like Mr. Graves would work in a school like theirs to begin with.

The only way to describe Mr. Graves is immaculate. He's a stark contrast to the decrepit school with his expensive tailored suits that emphasize the breadth of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, and the strong lines of his legs. He favors dark colors that make him look bigger than he already is, extending his intimidating presence, looming like a shadow in dark corners. His polished shoes click loudly on the stained linoleum floors when he strides agitated from one destination to another. And Credence can see Mr. Graves is nearly always agitated beneath his mask of impassiveness, the vexation heavy in the strong line of his brows.

His large hands are in constant motion, gestural and expressive like his face is not. They're constantly running through his hair, ruffling the long dark slicked top of it and smoothing down the salt-pepper undercut beneath. And then back again, patting it all down as though he always forgets he isn't supposed to touch his hair and is trying to put it back to the way it was.

After school on his way to the bus stop, Credence sometimes sees Mr. Graves standing by the school steps with a cigarette in hand, still watching. For a man who favors strict control, smoking seems to be a vice he cannot shake and he notices that Mr. Graves’s aggravation increases every time he takes another inhale of tobacco.

Mr. Graves is a contrast of juxtapositions that Credence doesn't quite understand. He favors control and yet he cannot seem to control certain parts of himself. He clearly hates the school and yet he still works there, has been for years as far as Credence knows, and surely a man like Mr. Graves can go anywhere he likes. There's always an anger that peeks through Mr. Graves’s affected blankness but during the times Credence has spoken with him, he'd been nothing but kind and even caring. But Credence knows he doesn't mean anything by that, of course.

No one cares about Credence enough to be genuinely kind to him, but it's nice to have someone try to be for once. He's sure it'll stop soon because he's worthless and Mr. Graves and Miss Goldstein will realize that quickly enough and give up, stop questioning him and let him return to his silent nonexistence, lest he taints them. Which he surely would if they spend too much time near him. Ma says he has an illness in his soul, something that can't be cured and will only drag others to sin with him.

Credence has always known he was different from other people his age. He feels more anger and sadness than any of them, emotions he can’t easily push away and they’re often expounded upon, by Ma, her new boyfriend Mr. Grindelwald,  and sometimes by his sisters when they’re being especially cruel.

He spends many an hour kneeling at the altar in their church-home, praying and praying for forgiveness from God, and for Him to take away this unholiness that resides in him, ever-growing like a malignant tumor. He knows his thoughts and desires are impure, abnormal in their depravity, and Ma knows all too well of them, knows he must be scourged of that sin before he’s consumed by it. That’s why she whips him, she says, to save him so he may enter the Kingdom of Heaven when his time comes instead of leaving his soul to languish in the fires of Hell.

That’s why he’s forced to stand for hours in the wintery cold, passing out pamphlets that proclaim his sin for all to see, promising to denounce it so he may be given repentance. Every day after school, Credence is supposed to pass out stacks of religious pamphlets as Ma says God commands of him, to atone for the freakish deviances he cannot help.

The pamphlets are bright garish things, splashed with messages of God’s hatred of homosexuality and every time Credence passes one out, he feels a little more of God’s hatred of him. They’re largely ignored by the crowds that pass him, but Credence forces himself to stand in the streets still, trying, trying, trying to atone for his unnatural ways.

It’s the only way, Ma has said time and time again. Spread God’s gospel and receive His punishment, and so Credence does, every day and every night when he removes the belt from around his waist and places it in Ma’s waiting hands. Grits his teeth through the push of the crowds ignoring him and through the pain of the leather striking his skin. Because this is the best Credence can ever hope for. He’s a deviant, a freak, and deserves nothing else.

And so Credence avoids Mr. Graves, ducking into open doorways and bathrooms when he passes him in the halls. He doesn’t want to further inconvenience Mr. Graves with his issues, his problems, his pain. He just wants to be invisible again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: ALL of the abuse tags come into play this chapter. Please heed.

Percival doesn't see the kid for two weeks, not even when he's patrolling the halls. If Percival thinks he knows any better, he would say Credence is avoiding him. Which Percival can't exactly blame him for, seeing as how each of their meetings have been tense and fraught with embarrassment and helplessness on all sides.

He just hopes that Credence has been going to school during those weeks and not hurt, or trapped at home, or any of the other very likely and equally horrific and melodramatic scenarios his mind can't help but conjure up to torment him throughout his day. It doesn't stop him from looking for Credence at every opportunity he gets.

Tina presses him for daily updates and he has nothing to offer her. Eventually, he gets so annoyed with her persistence, he tells his assistant she's no longer allowed to enter his office nor will he take her calls. He glares as Lucy bites back a smile and says, “yes, sir,” before she turns back to the stack of files in front of her. So instead, Tina floods his inbox with emails of increasingly alarming subjects in all capitalized letters such as “I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE AND I WILL COME OVER IF YOU DON’T ANSWER,” until he blocks her from that too.

He's on his way out to lunch on Thursday when he finally sees Credence. He most definitely doesn't sigh in relief.

The boy is sitting on the floor, hunched into himself with his head tilted back against a bank of lockers. His eyes are closed, lashes fanned dark against the sallow white of his gaunt cheeks. His long neck is bared, arched in a tense parabolic curve as though even when trying to relax, Credence is still holding himself stiff, ready to bolt at any given moment. From beneath his high collar, Percival can make out the shadow of finger-shaped bruises at the base of his throat.

With disgust warring on horror a tumbling mess roiling in his stomach, Percival approaches, making sure his footsteps are loud enough to announce his arrival. He doesn't think Credence had noticed despite the noise but as he steps closer, his eyes snap open and he turns to Percival, looking slightly dazed and almost frightened. He can see the fight or flight decision warring in Credence, watches as he forcibly wills himself to stay and not run away. Percival swallows heavily.

Credence's eyes are red rimmed and he's able to maintain eye contact only for a brief moment before he looks away, his head tilting down with his gaze. He swings his long legs around to stand, stumbling a bit in his haste and Percival almost moves to catch him until he sees Credence's deliberate step out of his reach.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says to the floor, his hair hanging in his eyes.

Percival tucks his hands into his coat pockets, tries to appear as unintimidating as possible. “Hello, Credence,” he replies. “Shouldn’t you be at lunch?”

He watches as Credence shuffles from one foot to the other, biting at his lip until it looks raw and red, clearly feeling awkward. “‘M not hungry,” he finally mumbles, still not looking up. There's a low grumbling sound from his stomach and Percival watches as embarrassment colors his cheeks.

With a jolt, he realizes that Credence has neither food nor money for food.  _Of course._ He’s sitting in the hallway, waiting for the lunch period to be over so he can go on to his next class on an empty stomach. And clearly, Credence is not comfortable enough to admit that.

Percival wonders with disgust where the abuse ends. Because _of course_ , there are new bruises. Because _of course_ , his coat and clothes are threadbare and falling apart. Because _of course_ , Credence is sent to school without food. Because _of course_.

“I’m about to go get some lunch myself,” Percival says, before he’s even aware of what he’s doing. “There’s a diner not far from school. They make the best sandwiches and pastries. I’d like for you to join me.” No one is more surprised than Percival when the invitation tumbles unbidden out of his mouth.

Not only are students not usually allowed to leave school premises for lunch, it is highly inappropriate for him to bring a student along on his own excursion. Yet another deviance from his norm. But his mind is made when he hears a another growl rumble from Credence’s stomach.

“Come, my boy,” he insists with a soft touch to Credence’s elbow. It’s a grip that he can shrug off easily if he so desires but Credence surprises him by allowing it.

Percival swallows heavily and doesn’t wonder about the last time Credence ate. Ignores the low grumbling of the boy’s stomach and pinched expression. Ignores how thin Credence’s arm feels beneath his hand, and how his own fingers are long enough to curl once over his bicep and then some. Ignores the shadows beneath the boy’s eyes and the sharpness of his cheeks.

Kowalski’s is a ten minute walk from the school, and the small diner-pastry-shop is already teeming with a boisterous lunch crowd by the time they arrive. Credence nearly shies away from the crush of people but Percival tightens his grip slightly and signals for his usual table. Jacob Kowalski, the owner seats them himself with a quirk of his brow at Credence but thankfully, no comment. He leaves them with two menus and a pat on Percival’s shoulder, disappearing into the lunch rush before Percival can turn fully to glare.

“The croissant sandwiches are very good,” Percival offers after a tense silence, wherein Credence stares blankly at his menu. Credence nods absentmindedly and doesn’t reply.

Percival wonders if he was wrong to drag Credence to lunch. The boy is clearly hungry, but he wonders if he’s overstepped his boundaries. He feels out of his depth and out of touch.

He’s not quite sure what the right thing to do for Credence is, if there is even such a thing, nor does he know any way to get him to come out of his shell. Percival has no idea on how to approach the whole situation. As he’s also not the most personable person, nor is he very good with other people, he fully believes that Tina is absolutely wrong in that he can help Credence at all, but damned if he won’t try.

Percival takes the liberty of ordering for Credence when he freezes as the waitress asks him for his order. It hurts Percival that this boy is so beaten and so downtrodden that he would fear even well-meaning strangers. He knows the road to recovery for Credence will be a long, arduous one and he can only hope that Credence would allow him to be a part of it. As soon as Percival can get him away from the abuse in the first place.

By the time they've finished their sandwiches in awkward silence, Percival is nearly vibrating out of his skin, wondering what he can possibly do or say. While he's used to prolonged silences from trouble-making students sent to his office to face punishment and quiet contrition from his under-performing subordinates, this is something else, something that makes Percival feel as though there's an oppressive weight in his chest and a clog in his throat.

As he reaches for the bill at the end of lunch, an idea comes to him and Percival rummages through his coat pocket for a scrap of paper. He doesn't miss the way Credence watches his hands warily, tense and coiled.

Finally settling on an old receipt he should've thrown out ages ago, he tears a square sheet from the paper and starts folding. He can feel Credence’s expression shift to curiosity as he watches from beneath the fringe of his hair but he remains silent.

“So this is something I learned a long time ago,” Percival begins. “I'm actually not sure if I still remember correctly, but it's something that's always calmed me when I'm stressed. It gives me something to focus on when everything else becomes too much. Maybe something like this will help you too, when you feel overwhelmed.”

“Not smoking?” Credence mumbles.

Percival smirks in return, surprised at Credence’s attempt at dry humor. “That helps too, I’ll admit. But that’s really not very good for your health, and you shouldn’t smoke.”

The corner of Credence’s mouth quirks up slightly, sardonic, and Percival’s heart nearly leaps into his throat at the sight of that small hint of positive emotion. He's barely paying attention to the paper, letting muscle memory take over.

Instead, he watches Credence watch his hands with open fascination as the scrap of receipt transfigures into a paper flower. He hands Credence the flower, who closes his hand gently around it as though it's something precious.

Percival swallows heavily and tears another square from the receipt. “Here,” he says. “I'll show you how to make them. It's very simple.”

Credence turns out to be a fast learner and he's almost smiling when he completes an origami flower on his own. The slight curve of the boy’s lips makes Percival feel as though the boulder in his chest just got the slightest bit lighter and he feels as though he's finally on the right track. Maybe.

*

Credence hasn’t ever really known a time when he’s not feeling as though he’s constantly overwhelmed. He’s overwhelmed with everything at school, Mr. Graves’s attention and kindness most of all, as well as everything that happens at home.

Sometimes, Credence feels so overwhelmed by the thought of having to stand on a cold street corner for strangers to jostle into him and ignore his meek offering of the pamphlets he’s supposed to distribute, he deliberately forgets to take the papers with him before school and doesn’t hand them out that day. He’s careful to only ever do so on days when he knows Ma is working late and make sure to always hand out extra the next day to keep the amount of missives in his room are consistent to Ma’s standards.

However, on one such day when Credence does not hand out the papers, Mr. Grindelwald is over again. He's trying to duck into his room as quietly as possible when Mr. Grindelwald stops him at the foot of the steps and comes up behind him, viscous-slow, his body pressing against Credence like a heavy burning weight along the length of his back.

Credence shudders as he feels long fingers brush against the nape of his neck, upsetting the short hairs there and sending a cold shiver down his spine. Mr. Grindelwald’s fingertips fit perfectly into the imprint necklace of bruises on his throat. Credence can do nothing but hold as still as possible, hoping that Mr. Grindelwald will be bored of him soon and leave him alone.

“Have you distributed God’s word today, Credence?” He asks, his tongue catching on the _s_ with a hiss.

Credence's insides freeze. He had not, and he knows Mr. Grindelwald already knows this. Punishment is to come.

Credence doesn’t dare turn his head, but he hopes and prays that his sisters are in their room, and they don’t see this – his punishment and his shame. The only thing he can be thankful for is that Mr. Grindelwald doesn't seem to do this to the girls. He largely ignores Chastity and Modesty, barely acknowledging them at all. He seems to reserve this kind of attention for Credence and he can't help but wonder if it's because Mr. Grindelwald sees the disgusting darkness inside of him.

It's the darkness that makes him impure. It's the darkness that makes Credence feels less of himself and more prone to rage and grief, at turns sudden and all-consuming. It's also the darkness that gives him sinful feelings, especially when he dreams of anonymous hands, large and gripping at his hips, his back, his chest. Disgusting dreams that when he wakes up, all he remembers are the rasping stubble-burn on his thighs and neck, the shape of sharp jaw lines and the warmth of strong arms.

The first time he dreamed of such sin, he was fourteen. He had woken up gasping and painfully hard, with his sheets soaked in sweat and sticking to his burning skin. He had been terrified, wondering if Ma heard him wake, wondering if she would somehow know his thoughts and dreams and punish him for them.

Of course, Ma had already known, always had from the start. She's always known Credence was crooked, bent and unholy and unfixable.

Credence wonders now if Mr. Grindelwald sees it too when he sneers at him, when Credence doesn't duck his head fast enough, when the back of his hand connects with Credence’s cheek and sends him reeling from the blow. He wonders if this is Ma’s new way of punishing him.

Maybe she's tired of trying to beat the Devil out of him, so she's brought home a demon to help finish the job.

Credence wonders if Mr. Graves sees it too. If maybe alternatively, that's why he's so nice to him. If maybe Mr. Graves sees the darkness and pities Credence for it, knowing it's hopeless and Credence will never amount to anything. He's not sure why that thought hurts as much as it does.

Mr. Graves. Credence hasn't been able to stop thinking about him since their lunch together at that diner, when Mr. Graves was so unbearably  _kind_ to him. No one’s ever been that nice to him before. Most people can't bear to look at him and simply pretend he doesn't exist. In the back of his mind, there's a small part of him that wonders  _why_ Mr. Graves would be so caring, when someone like Credence doesn't deserve nice things like kindness and warmth.

Surely, he must want something. Maybe something devious like Ma has warned him about, something nefarious and sinful that would seal the promise of Hell and eternal damnation. Thinking of Mr. Graves’s handsome face with his strong jaw and dark eyes, his large hands and broad shoulders, Credence doesn't know if he would refuse if Mr. Graves asked for such things.  

But Credence doesn't deserve someone like Mr. Graves. Why would someone like him want someone as broken and ugly as Credence?

He swallows heavily, trying to cast the sinful thoughts back to the darkness where they belong. After all, God is watching, always.

Even now, as Mr. Grindelwald is dragging him by the wrist towards the living room and forcing him to curve over the armrest of the couch, Credence feels the shame well up in him, nearly spilling over. Mr. Grindelwald probably knows, he can probably read the sinful thoughts from his face.

He tenses as he listens to the sound of Mr. Grindelwald removing his belt, the buckle jangling as he brings it down, whip-sharp against Credence's back. The metal buckle bites deep, drawing blood, and he swallows back his cries and takes it. He knows he deserves this. The pain is supposed to be cleansing and his flesh a sacrifice to scourge the darkness from within and make him holy, but it only stokes the rage and shame simmering and clashing inside of him.

Ma smiles when she comes home from the Bible study she leads that evening, seeing the stiff way he holds himself and the care he takes to avoid leaning against the back of his chair.

“See, Credence,” she says, gently cruel, taking his half-eaten plate as he's still eating and tipping the remainders of his dinner into the garbage. “You must learn from Mr. Grindelwald. This is how a real man should be. He told me how you didn't pass out your pamphlets today. I hope this will finally be a lesson that can get through your thick head. We must always remember to spread God’s glory, won’t we?”

And then Ma takes her turn with a switch she keeps especially for him over the palms of his hands until they're covered in red slashes and bleeding sluggishly. Credence stubbornly stifles his cries of pain, knowing they would only provoke her more and swallows hard against his tears until the torture is finally over and Ma finally tires of him. From next to her at the dinner table, Mr. Grindelwald smiles blade-sharp and winks at him.

That night when Ma and the girls are asleep, Mr. Grindelwald stands in Credence's doorway and watches him with the same knife grin gleaming in the dim light from the window. Credence cradles his now-useless hands against his chest and buries himself deeper in his blankets. He prays and prays for him to go away.

To Credence's immense shock, Mr. Grindelwald creeps into the room and slips under the covers behind him. Credence tries to back away as much as he's able, until he's pressed flush against the wall and still Mr. Grindelwald advances, pressing against the length of his back. Credence prays fervently that a crack would open up in the ground and swallow him whole, drag him into Hell where he and his darkness belong.

“Shhhh,” Grindelwald whispers as Credence shudders in disgust. His long fingers dig hard into the welts bitten deep into Credence's hip and he has to stifle a cry of pain with the back of his fist. “We mustn't wake your mother. Shhhh… that's a good boy,” and Credence closes his eyes right and continues praying.

He feels Grindelwald lifting the back of his shirt and pressing his mouth, wet and hot and disgusting against the bloodied lashes and he nearly sobs. He wonders how much worse it can possibly get if he tries to fight this. He shudders through it all until he feels Grindelwald’s hardness pressing against his backside.

Credence nearly screams but as though anticipating this, a large hand claps over his mouth and three fingers slither their way between his lips, filling his mouth and nearly making him gag.

“Shhhhhhhhh,” Grindelwald hisses again. “You're a good boy, aren't you? You won't scream, would you? You know that if you do, Chastity and Modesty would get it next, don't you? And oh, what _sweet_ girls they are. I know you want this, boy, I can see you for the kind of sinful wretch that you are. Crooked and deviant, trying to tempt others into sin with you. You're just a worthless little faggot, aren't you, boy?”

It's the way Grindelwald calls him  _boy_ that nearly undoes him, selfishly more so than his threat of Credence's sisters. The disgust bubbles in his chest to overflowing and he can't help but think of the tired way Mr. Graves calls him “my boy” when he doesn't know what to do about Credence. Surely, he will give up on him eventually. Everyone does. Even his birth mother gave up on him and that's how he ended up here, with Ma and now with Grindelwald.

Credence can feel his eyes burning, in shame and in anger but he refuses to let the tears fall. He swallows hard around the thick fingers and tries to ignore the feeling of Grindelwald pulling down his own pants and stroking himself until something wet and hot splatters across Credence's back. A gusty sigh is breathed wetly into his ear even as Credence tries his best to cringe away. He can feel cruel fingers rubbing the release into his backside, taking special care to push extra hard into the broken skin.

Credence almost wants to ask _why_ he's doing this. But he already knows the answer. It's because Credence is worthless, nothing, dirty, and innately sinful. This is but another form of punishment, creative in its depravity, a twisted facsimile of Credence's secret dreams now turned nightmare.

Thankfully, Grindelwald leaves soon after with another sharp smile, mean and dark. Credence runs to the bathroom and barely makes it to the toilet before the meager contents of his stomach are heaved violently from his body. He doesn't dare turn on the shower to wash away the shame, lest he wakes Ma. He settles for a washcloth and tries to scrub away as much of Grindelwald as he is able without losing more skin.

Credence does not sleep that night. He stares at the paper flower Mr. Graves made for him at the diner for a long time before digging a stack of missionary pamphlets from his shelf. He ignores the bright block text proclaiming that, “HOMOSEXUALITY IS A DANGEROUS EVIL THAT LIVES AMONG US,” and tears the paper into neat squares.

He spends all night folding them into paper flowers, one at a time, with trembling aching fingers as he chokes back tears. He painstakingly creases the paper, trying to think of nothing at all and trying to let the motions calm him. He hides the dozens of flowers beneath his bed as the sun rises, praying that Ma will not find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the amazing response to this fic so far! All of your comments and kudos and bookmarking mean the world to me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: ALL abuse tags still in effect.

Percival’s stringent need for structure in his life did not develop overnight. It has begun years ago when he was teenager, perched on the edge of adulthood and realizing his life was spinning out of control.

Seventeen was not usually an age during which anyone found themselves, but Percival did, and let it be said that Percival was always ahead of his peers. His close friend (and on good days, he might even grudgingly admit, _best_ friend), Seraphina Picquery can attest to that, with her many tales of their formative years spent in the Upper East Side together, always locked in competition in their years of private schooling.

The Graves and Picquery families had a close bond and Percival knew their mothers always had a secret wish of the two of them eventually marrying, much to Percival and Seraphina’s derision and disgust. Antigona Graves had grand plans for her only son, hoping he would spearhead the family business and fortune, to uphold the Graves name and keep it a powerful legacy uptown. In her mind, the best way to do so was the combine forces with the Picquerys’ no smaller fortune and legacy, and what better way to do that but to follow the way their old ancestors did things: by marrying their children together. But Percival would have none of that.  

Whilst slumped against each other in a tiny dorm in Princeton, corked out of his mind from a mixture of cocaine and Johnny Walker, Percival had turned to Seraphina with a manic gleam in his eye.

“You know what would _really_ piss off our parents?” he’d mumbled into her shoulder. Her head lolled towards him, eyes glassy and she’d shrugged, not particularly caring when she was that high.

“Public service,” Percival had declared proudly when she didn't reply. “We could be public servants,” he chortled. Everything was very funny when narcotics were fucking with his brain. “Like policemen. Government lackeys. Or god, if you can imagine, _teachers_.” And that was all it took for the both of them to break down in guffaws of loud laughter.

The very next day, after he came down from the chemicals addling his mind and realizing he still wanted to piss his parents off that badly, he'd gone to his course adviser and changed his sensible Business Law major to Literature and Classics. Not to be outdone, Seraphina changed hers to Anthropology.

He purged the drugs from his system, resisted the siren calls of alcohol and sex and poured himself into his studies. After that, Percival developed a near-obsession with the need to be in control of his own life, away from the greedy clutches of his parents and people like them. He started planning his days to the T, meticulous notes and lists and alternate plans that left no room for doubt, because not only would he show his parents he would not be like them, he had to do it well and _prove_ to them that he would be his own person.

Percival planned from there, a five year plan developing into ten years, fifteen years. He planned every minute detail on dismantling his parents’ expectations of him, graduating with honors and immediately accepting an offer to teach impoverished children in Ethiopia whilst his peers got high in the Hamptons.

That winter, he'd returned with beaded hemp bracelets twined up his wrists gifted from his students and a fellow teacher— a man on his arm. The guy didn't last long, but he had served his purpose. He was a message, to his parents and to high society.

The whole thing had effectively sent shockwaves through the small elite group of his parents’ friends and soft whispers of concern began to make themselves known. But Percival had known exactly what he was doing. It was all part of the plan.

Years later, after they'd long fallen out of touch after graduation and subsequently dashing their parents’ hopes, Seraphina had called Percival with an offer to work at the public school she was trying to rehabilitate. While unexpected, he quickly realized it was exactly what he wanted. A week later, Percival had replied _of course, he would_ love  _to be her Dean of Student Security_.

And so, Percival moved out of the cushy Upper East apartment his parents gifted him for his thirtieth birthday in hopes of wooing him back into their lifestyle and traded it for a gorgeous brownstone in Carroll Gardens. It was all at once the most spontaneous thing he'd ever done as well as the best thing he could've ever done. He got as far away from his parents as he could without leaving the city, all the while sticking it to them and their friends by working for a _public_ institution.

Sure, it had come out of nowhere and it had required a lot of wriggling in his plans to make it work, but it was all worth it. It was the last time he pushed aside his own fastidiousness to work around someone else. Until Credence Barebone came along.

Percival’s meticulously planned Friday afternoon schedule is thrown straight out the window as he’s returning from a meeting with Principal Picquery when he finds Credence sitting silently at Lucy's desk in the sitting area outside of his office.

It’s the day after he took him to Kowalski’s and he was initially worried he had overstepped his boundaries and scared Credence off when he did not see the boy in the halls all day. He’s sitting there now in a hard plastic chair, hunched in almost exactly the same way as the day Percival first met him with his chin tucked against his chest and his shoulders drawn up towards his ears.

Lucy gives him a wide-eyed panicked look as Percival approaches and dashes off as quickly as politely possible for her lunch break when he dismisses her. He moves to pull up a chair to bring it next to Credence, who still has yet to look up from his steadfast gaze at the clasped hands in his lap.

Percival examines what he can see of the boy, making note of the old whip-like lashes over the backs of his hands and wrists but he can tell from the stiff way Credence holds himself that there are definitely new injuries beneath his baggy sweater. He has a sinking cold feeling in the pit of his stomach that rather than it be a sign of Credence's trust that he came to him, it is instead about something so large and ugly and overwhelming, the boy has _no choice_ but to come to him.

“Credence,” he finally says, all too aware how hoarse his own voice sounds. “Show me.”

Credence slowly turns his shaking hands palms-up in his lap and keeps his head ducked, his hair obscuring his eyes. Percival sucks in a sharp breath when he sees the state of the underside of his hands. He had seen it marked before with red welts and bruises before but this is something else entirely.

Credence is trembling as he holds up his hands for Percival’s inspection and he flinches but doesn't move away when Percival gently takes a bony wrist in his own hand. Credence's palms are red and raw, a crosshatch of barely scabbed red gashes biting deep into the soft muscle, ranging in length from an inch to the span of his hand. Blood still oozes sluggishly from some of the deeper lacerations, staining his skin red. His palms are a bloodied mess and it's a miracle he can still move his hands at all, much less clench them so tightly.

Swallowing his fury and disgust, Percival slowly rises from his seat and gently tugs Credence to stand with him. He releases his hand briefly to unlock his office and guides Credence through the door with a soft push. It would do neither of them any favors to keep sitting out in the open, especially since the halls will soon flood with students returning to class after lunch.

Logically, Percival knows he should take Credence to the nurse’s office and immediately call the authorities about this _assault_ but he knows if he chooses to do so, Credence would never forgive him. It's already a huge sign of trust that he's here at all so Percival forces down his anger and revulsion and tries to help as much as he is able.

He sits with Credence at his desk, cleaning and bandaging his hands up as best as he can with the rudimentary first aid kit he keeps in his office. The best he can do is sanitize the cuts and slather some generic antibiotic ointment over the worst bits and wrap them up in gauze. Credence flinches and winces through the whole ordeal but doesn't try to pull away, just sits there silently and lets Percival patch him up.

Percival realizes with mounting concern that Credence hasn't spoken a single word at all and nearly jumps out of his skin when Credence says in a soft broken voice, “There's more.”

He turns in the chair and gingerly lifts the back of his sweater. Percival has to swallow hard around the scream bubbling in his throat while simultaneously trying his very fucking best not to _lose his fucking mind_. He stares at the mess of the boy’s back, an abstract painting in blood and bruises and silently congratulates himself on not losing his shit at the sight of it. Some of the lacerations are deep, bisecting the too-skinny width of Credence’s back, slashing across the prominent knobs of his spine and they continue up, up, up beneath the hem of where Credence holds the sweater, an endless Pollock painting.

The rage boils so hot and thick in Percival’s chest, he's choking on it and he has to breathe harshly through his nose. He wants to punch something. When Percival finally finds his voice again, it takes a great deal of effort to keep it measured and even. “Let's clean this up too.” It takes every ounce of control not to shake Credence and demand to know who did this so Percival can— can— _what_? What can he possibly do that would benefit Credence?

 _Calm and patience_ , he reminds himself.

Percival knows they're halfway into fifth period already by the time he manages to disinfect the open gashes and spread a thin layer of ointment all over Credence's torso, but Credence is in no state to return to class. Percival will have Lucy email his teachers later and let them know Credence isn’t well enough to attend class that day.

Instead of vocalizing any of the hundreds of questions perched on the edge of his tongue, Percival orders lunch for them both over Credence's soft protests and they sit in silence until one of the security guards knock at his door with the delivery boy from Kowalski’s. He pays the kid and kicks the door shut, returning to his seat beside Credence with a bag of sandwiches.

Credence stares at the sandwich handed to him as though he's not sure what to do with it and Percival is quickly running out of patience.

“Eat, my boy,” he commands, tearing open his own lunch.

Head jerking up as though pulled by invisible strings, Credence meets his eye for a full second before sliding his gaze to the side. Percival notes the dark circles under his eyes and the purpling bruise on his cheek. He wants to reach out to soothe those hurts too, but there's nothing he can do about them. He grips his sandwich tighter and doesn't say anything, trying to hang on to what little calm he has left with tooth and nail.

Percival watches as Credence swallows heavily and realizes with dawning horror that his eyes are growing increasingly red around the edges and his lashes are looking wet and _fuck fuck fuck_ what now? Did he do something wrong? Was his tone too harsh?

Carefully setting his lunch to the side, Percival reaches tentatively for Credence's shoulder, trying for reassurance and nearly jerks back when the boy dissolves into full body-wracking sobs. His heart breaks for the boy, this kid who's gone through so much, and lots more that Percival doesn't even know about, isn't sure he _wants_ to know about, with no one to turn to but a taciturn old man who's even not qualified for the job of helping him. Where the fuck is Tina when you actually need her?

Percival awkwardly gathers the boy into his arms as Credence sobs even harder against his shoulder, tears dripping onto the collar of his shirt. Wary of the gashes on Credence’s back, he curls his hand around the back of his neck and holds him tight until the bawling tapers down to soft whimpers then finally wet hiccoughs and heaving breaths. He pulls back slightly, keeping his fingers pressed gently against Credence’s cheek and tilts his head back so he can meet his eyes.

Percival forces calm into his voice as he cradles Credence’s face between his palms. “Breathe, my boy,” he commands. “In… and out… in… steady breaths. Very good. That’s it, my boy. Just breathe. In… and out….” And he repeats it over and over until ragged gasps taper down into shaky but paced breathing, all the while still holding on to Credence.

“Tell me who did this, Credence.”

Credence tries to shake his head until Percival tightens his grip around the back of his neck. Using his thumbs to wipe away the trail of tears on Credence's face, Percival takes a deep breath and tries again.

“You have to tell me what happened in order for me to help you.”

Credence stares back balefully, dark eyes filled with sorrow beyond his years and Percival feels something beneath his ribs crack and break.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Credence whispers, so quiet Percival almost doesn’t catch his words despite the small distance between them.

Percival doesn’t know how to answer that pitiful inquiry. The boy sounds _shattered_ and the broken thing in Percival’s chest twinges painfully. It breaks his heart that Credence is so disbelieving that he’s worthy of any sort of kindness, small and paltry as the offerings are, disbelieving that anyone can bring themselves to treat him as someone precious, someone worth protecting.

“You deserve to have someone on your side,” Percival finally replies after giving the question considerable thought. It's the most truthful answer he has and it's the least of what he can offer Credence. He knows a little too well about what it’s like to feel alone and kept under pressure with expectations coming from all sides. He knows what it’s like to feel powerless.

Percival is no saint but he will learn patience for this boy. There hasn't been enough people who've been patient enough to show him kindness, and it's the least of all someone as innocent and good as Credence deserves. Percival just isn’t sure why thinking he can possibly protect Credence, even if it’s in some tiny insignificant way makes him feel as though he’s on the precipice of a deep abyss and with any small misstep, he’ll fall and drag Credence down with him. The feeling is overwhelming, oppressive. Percival feels as though he’s drowning.

The look Credence gives him is part trepidation, part disbelief, and part gratitude. The fear of believing Percival’s words shine dark in his eyes but Percival is okay with that. He knows the trust will take some time, and healing even longer.

*

Credence knows he shouldn’t have come to Mr. Graves, but he’d had a moment of weakness and could not resist lure of his comforting presence. After last night with Grindelwald, Credence cannot help the desire to be around someone who is actually _kind_ to him.

But it's too much, he realizes in hindsight. The overwhelming kindness is too much for Credence, who doesn't deserve nearly so much. And he sees he's made Mr. Graves upset again. He sees the anger and disgust in his eyes when he looks at Credence's injuries and Credence doesn't know what to do with someone who actually cares this much about his wellbeing. Credence has never had someone care about him enough to be angry on his behalf before.

He chances another look at Mr. Graves. He looks calmer now, determined as though he actually believes he can save Credence and Credence wishes he can believe that too.

“So tell me,” Mr. Graves says, almost pleading. “Who did this to you?”

Credence knows Mr. Graves already knows the answer to that question but he cannot betray his Ma, not even with all the pain she inflicts on him. He doesn't know what would happen if someone with authority has proof of what Ma does, what would become of his sisters. His family would be torn apart and where would Credence go then? Too old for the system and too young for the world.

So Credence bites his tongue and shakes his head, looking directly at Mr. Graves and begs with his eyes, _please_ _please please don't ask anymore._

Mr. Graves sighs, his head tilting down against Credence's forehead for a brief moment. He nods and lets go of Credence, sits back and moves away. His expression is so pained, Credence almost regrets not telling him everything. Credence shudders at the loss of contact, feeling bereft and much colder for it.

Credence spends the rest of the day in Mr. Graves’s office, curling up in one of the chairs and gets a head start with his homework. He tries to be as unobtrusive as possible while he watches Mr. Graves go about his day. He leaves school after the final bell rings, feeling almost content, having been able to stay in the quiet of the office, a sweet reprieve from the stress of his classes.

Credence makes sure to pass out extra pamphlets that evening. He stands at the corner by the bus stop and holds out the flyers, mostly to be ignored by the other students rushing past him in their hurry to leave for the weekend. The ones who take the paper from him do so with a glance of pity and a weak grimace. Credence doesn't care, so long as he's rid of enough of them to go home and hopefully avoid a beating. When he can no longer stand the cold and his hands are frozen into stiff claws, he starts walking and shoves pamphlets into every mailbox he comes across until they're all gone.

As he begins his long trek home, Credence's mind turns and turns in endless circles, always looping back to the same subject no matter where he tries to steer his thoughts: Mr. Graves. _You deserve to have someone on your side_ , he'd said.

Why does a near-stranger like Mr. Graves think so when his own Ma never did? When his own sisters never did? Sure, none of them are blood related but family must surely count for _something_?

Ma’s never been a believer in kindness, Credence knows, not even towards her children. Kindness breeds complacency, she says, and complacency blinds them to the Lord’s way. Credence knows better than to ever expect a luxury like warmth from her. She seems to have given every bit of kindness and warmth she possesses to Grindelwald anyways. Credence has only ever seen her nice to him and he shudders at the thought of Grindelwald.

He will not think about him.

Credence makes sure to unwrap his hands and dispose of the bandages Mr. Graves so carefully wrapped around his hands before he gets home. He doesn't want further punishment from Ma if she is to catch sight of them and he doesn't want his sisters seeing them either and tattling on him. He doesn't think his hands can withstand another beating.

The wounds sting and ache in the cold as Credence clenches his hands tight and stuffs them into his coat pockets. Hopefully, Ma will have mercy on him tonight. He's trying his best, he really is, and he hopes she can see that.

The house is mercifully free of Grindelwald when Credence gets home and he sighs in relief, allows himself the luxury of breathing deeply at the threshold before stepping inside. His sisters are sitting in the living room prayer area, folding new pamphlets for him to pass out. He ignores them as they ignore him and drifts silently to his room to deposit his school bag and coat. He checks under his bed to make sure the paper flowers are still there and still undiscovered before he returns downstairs to the kitchen.

Credence slowly prepares dinner, but makes sure he's quick enough so it's ready by the time Ma gets home. The onions and tomatoes sting the wounds on his hands until they feel as though there's fire burning his palms but he tries his best to ignore the pain and trudges on. Ma will not tolerate any excuses for his inability to complete his chores.

Ma is entering through the door as the soup is just finishing and Credence freezes when he sees Grindelwald step in right behind her. His hands are shaking as he ladles the soup into serving bowls and he hopes none of the liquid sloshes onto the counters. He takes deep breaths to steady the rabbit-quick racing of his heart, lest Grindelwald notices his fear and tries his best to shrink back into himself, provide as small of a target as possible.

Grindelwald sidles up to him and presses close. Credence has to refrain from shuddering away. Grindelwald takes a deep inhale next to his neck and grins, showing all his teeth.

“Smells good,” Grindelwald says, his voice dark as he sneers at Credence.

Credence doesn't reply, only nods jerkily and prays to anyone listening for Grindelwald to please leave him alone. He's saved by Ma, who steps into the kitchen and takes her seat at the head of the table. They gather around her and bow their heads as she says grace, thanking God for their bounty and blessing their family and her work in His name. Credence grimaces through the prayer but dutifully echoes “amen.”

That night, Credence lays in bed kept awake by the squeals and moans echoing from his Ma’s bedroom. The sounds make him feel disgusted and hot all over but he fervently prays that it means Grindelwald won't be bothering him later. He's finally drifting off to sleep when he feels the side of his bed dipping under the weight of another body.

Credence is startled awake to find Grindelwald peering down at him with his cruel glinting eyes and a hand clapping over his mouth. He tries to shake his head, _please no_ and Grindelwald only smiles wider as he bears down on Credence.

“Shhhhh,” Grindelwald whispers, his teeth glinting like sharp blades in the dim light. “You were such a _good boy_ last night, I had to come back. Don't you know what a wretched temptation you are, boy?” He leans down to press wet lips against Credence’s ear, “such a _delight_. Oh, the things I can teach you. I can train you to be such a good pet. You're a good boy, aren't you?”

Credence shudders and tries to wrench away, his hands gripping at Grindelwald's hand holding his head down but he doesn't budge. His bulk is much bigger than Credence's own malnourished skinny frame and Grindelwald bears down and down until Credence feels as though his air is slowly being choked off and he feels faint, black creeping into the edges of his vision.

His tenuous grip on consciousness slips from him as Grindelwald’s hand readjusts to block off the air to his nose as well as his mouth. He tries valiantly to flail away his assailant and the last thing he hears is the jangling of a belt and something hot and damp and disgusting rubbing against his cheek and then he knows no more.

Credence wakes up to a bitter crusted substance on his lips and the overwhelming sense of disgust and shame that propels him scrambling to the bathroom. He throws up for the second day in a row into the toilet, retching until he feels his throat burn and he wishes he can empty more of himself down the drain, heave out all of his insides so he may be rid of the dark odium that bubbles like tar inside of him.

It’s Saturday; he has no Mr. Graves to turn to today. Credence is on his own. He has to survive the next two days of weekend before he can see Mr. Graves again, to be in his comforting, cleansing presence where he is shown warmth and kindness, something Credence needs and _craves_ at the moment.

He knows it's wrong, to accept such charity from someone else, but Credence is only human and he is so, so weak. He wishes he could feel Mr. Graves’s arms around him again as he leans against the cool porcelain of the toilet and hopes and prays to a God who hates him that he can survive the next two days alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the amazing response as always!  
> 


	5. Chapter 5

Percival finds Tina glowering at him on his doorstep when he returns from his morning run on Sunday. He thinks about ignoring her and walking past his own house and around the block again, hoping she would leave by the time he comes back but he sighs and resigns to facing her when her glare pierces straight through him from across the street.

“Graves,” she says as he walks up the steps to his door. Hephaestion, the traitor immediately butts at her hand, seeking affection.

“Tina,” he replies, reaching past her to open the door. Because Percival Graves is not only well-bred, he is polite even in rude situations, he holds the door open for her, despite that she'd all but invited herself into his home.

Tina steps by him with a swirl of her coat and into his apartment as though she lives there and Percival has to bite back his annoyance. It's too early for all of this, whatever _this_ is.

“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” he asks drily, unhooking Hephaestion’s leash and padding past her to the kitchen.

“You blocked my calls and my emails,” Tina says accusingly as she follows him. She stands with her hip cocked against the ledge of his kitchen table and glares.

“I would've hoped you got the hint from that,” Percival replies, a smile tugging at his lips despite his feelings on the matter. “And here you are.”

“I did warn you in my last email,” Tina points out reasonably. “I know where you live and I told you I would come to your door if you didn't reply. So here I am.”

“This is above and beyond even for you, Tina. Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” she replies. “I'm here about Credence, obviously.”

Percival huffs a sigh from his nose as he scoops coffee grinds into the French press. “Really, Tina, this could've waited until tomorrow.”

Tina makes a funny sound in her throat. “Ah, actually it can't. It's Sunday.”

“Yes, I know what day it is,” Percival replies with a wry arch of his brow.

“People go to church on Sundays,” she continues slowly, as though there's something he's supposed to understand in her frustratingly disjointed words there.

“Yes…” he replies slowly. “Some people do.” He's not going to give her the satisfaction of asking what she wants, not when she's the one who barged into his home and is now standing in the middle of his kitchen, arms crossed over her chest as though she's raring for a fight. They stare at each other from across the table, neither giving an inch. Sometimes, Tina reminds him of Seraphina when they were young and Percival wonders if that's maybe why he doesn't mind keeping her around as much as he does.

Tina finally relents when she says, “people like Credence's mom. She holds a Sunday service every week at their church-home and I think we should go.”

The flat look Percival gives her should've been enough to send her scuttling but whether it be stubbornness or righteousness that fuels Tina, she barely blinks as she stares back defiantly. Of all the things she could've come to talk to him about, she's essentially asking him to stalk the Barebones. “No,” he says.

Percival has spent enough of his week thinking about Credence Barebone and enough of his Saturday mulling over the situation in between bottles of wine. He will not spend his Sunday morning stalking the poor boy.

But then his thoughts screech to a grinding halt at the memory of Credence in his office, bloodied and helpless and the protective streak in Percival flares its ugly head. Suddenly all he wants is to see for himself, in person, Credence's well-being. He hopes there aren't any new injuries sustained over the weekend, or any more hurts to break the already broken boy.

He remembers how Credence looked at him, in disbelief and in awe when Percival told him he deserved someone on his side, and that was the truest thing Percival could've said. He remembers Credence's need of protection, and maybe between him and Tina, they can actually save him.

And that's how he finds himself dressed in his “Sunday best” with Tina smirking in the passenger seat, driving across Brooklyn to see Credence fucking Barebone. He's really overstepping every boundary here, crashing through every single barrier of propriety like a bull in a china shop, led into madness by Tina and his own lack of self control. Quite frankly, he's disgusted with himself for letting it get this far.

All too soon, they're pulling up to a decrepit old building Tina insists is the correct place. It's a little wooden clapboard church in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, past the edge of civilized Brooklyn and into some nondescript area surrounded by empty streets littered with garbage and humans bundled in ragged piles laying on the cracked pavement. He can see paint flaking from the siding of the building and the heavy slog of a foundation sinking slowly into the ground. A rotting wooden cross slumps on the apex of the sagging old roof.

People are trickling past them into the church as Percival and Tina stand, staring aghast at the condition of the place. Percival wrinkles his nose in distaste at the sight of the church and double checks the lock on his door. It'll be a good day indeed if his car doesn't get stolen.

His mother would be turning in her grave if she knew he was visiting a place like this. He glances up at the faded sign by the front door, proclaiming it to be a church of the New Salem Philanthropic Society, a sect he's never heard of but he already knows promises lectures full of fire and brimstone if the passionate sermon titles listed are anything to go by. Or perhaps his mother might even approve, he thinks, staring hard at the Thursday bible study session, “What Lies Waiting in Hell for Sodomites.” Terrific. He can't fucking wait.

The inside of the church isn't much better than the exterior. The walls are paneled in dark wood, casting deep shadows along the rows of pews set into the middle of the long nave and the altar in the front set with a life sized carving of Christ on the cross is nearly entirely enshrouded in darkness. The pews themselves are built from mahogany, long past their prime, cracking in places and splintering in others. Percival can't imagine coming to a place like this every week, much less living in the depressing shack.

He scans the dark corners for any sight of Credence and finally finds him staring back from the rear of the nave at the last row of seats. The boy’s eyes are wide, fearful as he catches Percival's gaze and he shakes his head slightly as though he's asking them to leave. He freezes immediately when a tall blond man sidles up next to him.

Percival watches as the man presses a heavy hand down on Credence's shoulder. Credence drops his gaze immediately, mumbling a response to what the man whispers too close to his ear, lips brushing against the shell of it. Credence is shaking his head, shrinking further into himself as though he wants to disappear. And then suddenly, the gaze of the stranger flicks up to meet Percival's eye from across the room.

Percival ignores the tug on his arm from Tina and glares back at the creep as he watches the hand tighten around Credence's shoulder and an oily self-satisfied smile stretches across the stranger’s face. Percival’s hands instinctively curl into tight fists by his side.

A frisson of anger spikes through him, sudden and sharp like a crack of lightning that ignites all of his nerve endings and makes him itch for a fight. He wants to slam his fist into the fleshy jaw of that smarmy stranger touching Credence and feel the bone of his face give beneath his knuckles. It takes several more desperate tugs at his arm before he finally snaps his attention back to Tina.

He realizes belatedly she's talking to a woman and was trying to get him to answer one of her questions. The woman stares up at Percival, her eyes dark and suspicious with cold smile frozen on her face. She looks at him as though she knows his sins already and she's judging him unworthy of being in the church.

“You're both new,” she says, looking between the both of them appraisingly. Her gaze catches on the sheen of the wool on Percival’s suit and the gold of the tie pins at his throat. Her mouth twists into a sneer at the sight of them, contemptuous. “What brings you two to our humble church?”

“Curiosity,” Percival replies shortly, trying to brush her off. He does not see how it's any business of hers.

“Are you a seeker of truths?” she continues, her smile spreading wider until it looks as though her face might crack in half from the strain of it.

“I suppose you can say that,” he replies, humoring her.

“Then welcome. We accept any and all truth seekers, for the only truth to be found is in the word of God.” And with that dramatic announcement, she sweeps away to the front of the church and takes her place behind the pulpit.

“That was Mary Lou Barebone,” Tina hisses in his ear as she drags him to sit at the back of the church. Percival is too busy trying to find Credence again to register her words. “She’s Credence's _mother_.”

“What a delightful woman,” Percival says, still scanning the church for any sign of the boy and that odious blond man hanging around him. Tina tugs on his arm twice before he finally returns his attention to her. He's getting quite irritated with her fidgeting and touching and he's about to snap at her to stop when she points discreetly towards the front of the church.

He follows the line of her finger to see Credence standing in the shadows by the altar behind his mother with two girls who must be his sisters. Content to have Credence in his line of sight, Percival settles into his seat for the rest of the sermon, wishing for it to speed along and be over before his patience runs out.

*

Credence's first reaction to seeing Mr. Graves and Miss Goldstein is elation, happiness at the sight of them, the only two people in the world who have ever been kind to him. His second reaction is cold dread, hitting him like a smack of cold water, sobering him enough to realize what it means to see them at his Ma’s church.

They've come to gather proof of what Ma does to him, to prove she's the one who hurts him so they can send in the authorities to swarm like parasites over their tiny broken family and take away his sisters and lock away Ma. Credence's chest hurts at the thought of it. Despite everything, he does care and he still hangs onto the hope that one day, Ma would care about him too and he doesn't want them to be taken away from him. Not when there will be nothing left for Credence if they're gone.

Even still, Credence cannot rid himself of the traitorous elation he feels at seeing Mr. Graves. Just the sight of him alone is enough to lift his mood and forget a little of the night before, or at the very least makes it feel a little further away.

So he keeps an eye on the two of them, tracking Mr. Graves as he walks through their dilapidated church, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else. He doesn't seem notice the others in the congregation staring as well, wondering why this well dressed stranger is standing in their glum midsts. Mr. Graves’s expression is still mildly offended until he locks eyes with Credence across the room, and then it clears and his eyes light up.

Credence has never seen anyone _happy_ to see him before, and seeing Mr. Graves's shift in mood makes something in his chest clench hard and leaves him slightly breathless. But then Credence remembers himself and where he is and doesn't allow his own echoing happiness to show on his face. Instead, he shakes his head slightly and hopes Mr. Graves will get the hint that he should leave, leave Credence to this misery and get as far away as possible before Ma, or worse, Grindelwald sink their claws in.

Credence can feel him like an ominous presence before he sees him as Grindelwald all but materializes next to him. A heavy hand lands on Credence's shoulder and he can't help the involuntary flinch that ripples under his skin.

“You seem to know that gentleman,” Grindelwald murmurs in his ear, too close.

Credence lowers his eyes and shakes his head vehemently. He tries not to think about the sin he’s committing by lying in church, the church that shelters him and feeds him and tries to save him. Guilt swells cold in his belly but he ignores the feeling, hoping that God can forgive him this little sin, yet another to add to his mile-long list.

The hand on Credence’s shoulder grows heavier by the second as Grindelwald presses down on him and Credence is reminded of two nights ago, when Grindelwald pressed his hand over his mouth until he passed out and then—

“It seems like he knows you,” Grindelwald amends, still whispering with his mouth pressed against Credence's ear. Credence drops his gaze and tries his best to hold still. He doesn't dare look back at Mr. Graves lest Grindelwald notices. “He won't stop _staring_ at you,” he continues. “What does a man like that want with an ugly scrawny thing like you? Maybe he thinks you're a little whore, with the wanton way you stare back. Maybe he thinks he can buy you. But he doesn't know you're my boy.”

Credence is flooded with so much anger from his words, he's nearly trembling with it. The rage burns dark-hot in his chest and it's nearly enough to make him snap back that he is _not_ Grindelwald's boy, he never will be, and he can go straight to Hell. He nearly forgets himself and where he is, he's so angry. He's only saved from spewing the scathing words that will likely get him into the worst kind of trouble when Grindelwald finally removes his hand from Credence's shoulder and chuckles darkly.

“Looks like he lost interest. I told you no one is interested in you, boy.” Another dark chuckle and Credence finally hears Grindelwald walking away. Still pointedly not looking at Mr. Graves, Credence sighs deeply and allows himself a small moment of relief before he walks up along the edge of the nave to take his place behind Ma by the front.

The sermon drones on and Credence knows he must pay attention, it is God’s word flowing from Ma but all he can think about is Mr. Graves, who hasn't looked away from him since service started. He can feel his dark eyes boring into him from the back of the room, watchful and intense. He spends much of the service staring at his shoes and avoiding that gaze, hoping Ma and Grindelwald would not notice.

When service finally ends, Credence is expected to stand by the side of the church and pass out leaflets to their congregation. He stands in the cold without his coat and grips tight the stack of leaflets, offering them to those who pass him.

Credence is nearing the end of his stack when a strong hand grips his elbow and steers him forcefully into the side alley next to the church. He struggles weakly against the grip, thinking it's likely a vagrant considering their neighborhood, the nerve of them to strike so close to a place of worship. He finally looks up when the hand abruptly lets go of his arm, looking past the sleek line of a familiar coat and suit, up to see Mr. Graves looking concernedly at him.

Credence's heart pounds in his chest as he stares back warily, unable to tear his eyes away. He watches as Mr. Graves moves towards him, holds himself as still as possible and tries not to reach out and give away how needy he is for Mr. Graves's presence. He nearly sags in relief when he feels hands reach up to cup the sides of his face, fingers warm and rough against his skin. Credence shudders against Mr. Graves and barely remembers how to breathe.

“Are you alright, Credence?” Mr. Graves asks, voice tight.

Credence doesn’t quite know what to say. _No_ , he wants to yell. He’s not alright. He’s so far from alright, he’s not even sure if he’s ever known what alright feels like. And while he doesn’t want to lie, he also doesn’t want to burden Mr. Graves, so he deflects. “Ma and Grindelwald will see you,” he says. “Will see _us_.”

Mr. Graves freezes and his fingers press tighter against Credence’s face. From their close distance, Credence can see the muscle jumping in Mr. Graves’s jaw and the twist of his mouth. “Grindelwald? Is that—,” he stops to clear his throat. “Is that— that the man who was with you in the church, Credence?”

Credence is unable to help the shift of his eyes towards the mouth of the alley, fearful that even speaking of the Devil will summon him. He cannot even imagine the sort of trouble he would be in if Grindelwald or Ma caught him in the alley with Mr. Graves instead of passing out his pamphlets. Surely the whipping he will receive will be unlike any he’s experienced before.

As though sensing his worry, Mr. Graves loosens his grip and drops his hands to Credence’s shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Tina is talking to your Ma. She knows to distract her for some time while I talk to you. That’s why we’re here today, Credence. To make sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

Credence isn’t sure what to do with that information, that these two people would care enough about him to take time out of their busy lives to see him, to check up on him. A lump forms high in his throat, sticking in his esophagus and his chest hurts with the feeling of the burden of their care.

“You didn’t have to do that,” is all he can mumble in response, dropping his gaze to his shoes. He’s still unable to offer that he’s fine, because he’s not, and he cannot lie again so close to church, not when God is still in hearing range.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves sighs, tipping his chin up again. “Please tell me. Who is that man?”

Credence swallows hard, trying to unstick his throat. He’s not sure if he should say. He doesn’t know what will happen if he’s to tell Mr. Graves what Grindelwald has been doing. He doesn’t know the consequences of saying, doesn't know what Mr. Graves would do.

Would he care? Would he do anything at all? Or would he be so disgusted with Credence that he’ll abandon him immediately, to never look back? He’s so tainted now, he cannot even blame Mr. Graves for doing so if that is to be the case. He cannot fathom Mr. Graves wanting to help him anymore if he's to know.

Credence doesn’t know what he would do without Mr. Graves. He’s his only lifeline left in a world that doesn’t want him, and he selfishly doesn't want to drive him away, not yet. He wants the warmth for just a little bit longer.

“Don’t worry about him,” is all Credence can offer, the only words he can bring himself to say, even as it breaks him to do so. He wants so very badly to tell Mr. Graves and to beg his forgiveness for letting a man like Grindelwald ruin him and corrupt his soul, make him dirtier than he already is and guarantee his place in Hell. But he can’t do it, he cannot say because he doesn’t know if he can survive the judgement and disgust that will most definitely cloud Mr. Graves’s eyes if he is to know.

“Is he the man that’s been hurting you?” Mr. Graves’s expression is so earnest, so open, and so pained Credence almost caves.

So he gathers all of his strength and will and wraps his resolve around him like a tattered blanket. He swallows hard and he knows he’s falling. He’s been falling for most of his life but the trajectory is only picking up speed now, quickening into a breakneck plummet and Credence feels like he’s hurtling down, down towards an unseeable ground that will swallow him whole in red and fire and damnation.

He’s already come so far, and he’s going to make his choice. He’s going to be selfish and since he’s a carrier of sin, one more will not matter. He's always lying anyways, for Ma, for Chastity and Modesty, for the little scrap of family he has, but this will be one of the only times he dares to lie for himself. He wants to keep this shred of salvation he can only find in Mr. Graves. He wants to be selfish. He wants to be _warm_.

So he lies. “I’m fine, Mr. Graves. I’m okay,” Credence says. And he knows God heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your comments and kudos give me life! Thank you all so much!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this amazing [photo set](https://lovesgraves.tumblr.com/post/156276323675/so-he-lies-im-fine-mr-graves-im-okay) made by @lovesgraves!

Percival begins summoning Credence to his office during lunch period, for the sole purpose of making sure the boy has at least one square meal, if nothing else. He's learned to not believe Credence when he says he's fine or if he's not hungry. He buys the food anyways and Credence eats once it's placed in front of him, but Percival sees him swallowing down his misinformed guilt first.

They settle into a routine of sorts that soothes Percival’s need for order with Credence spending the hour helping Percival file records or doing his homework. On the days when Percival has meetings, Credence sits with Lucy and helps her with menial tasks.

Sometimes, Tina barges in without invitation to sit and chat with Credence as he works and Percival glares at her, trying to get her to leave without outright saying so and upsetting Credence, who for whatever reason doesn't seem to mind her company. The only reason why Percival doesn't mind Tina hanging around quite as much as he should is the way she seems to be able to bring Credence out of his shell, if just a little bit. It's something Percival has yet to accomplish and when he questions Tina about it, she only smirks and shakes her head, tells him he's doing just fine.

The days slip into weeks and Percival is relieved to see no new lashes on Credence for a record-breaking two and a half weeks, but Credence still wraps himself in the same sullen silences and sad introspections.

There must be something else going on that Percival isn't seeing, and he has a horrible feeling in his gut that it's the blond man he saw at the church. Credence had called him Grindelwald.

Percival begins going to the New Salemers church every Sunday, not to be closer to God, but to be closer to Credence. Every week, he sits in the back and listens to Mary Lou Barebone drone on and on about Hell as he stares down Credence's personification of it yards away. Grindelwald sometimes stares back, challenging, but mostly he stares at Credence with something slimy and unholy in his eyes, a nasty sort of self-satisfaction that makes Percival grind his teeth.

There's something there that Percival is missing, and it aggravates him, sets him on edge. Percival tried to bring up the name once during their time together in his office, and Credence's shuddering fearful response to the three syllables had Percival scrambling out of his chair to hold the boy. It would not do to press the issue Percival has learned, so he drops the subject, trusting Credence to eventually tell him on his own, or until Percival has a solution to the problem at hand.

When they run out of menial tasks to assign him, Percival gives Credence stacks of scrap paper for him to cut into small squares and fold into paper flowers. Credence recently started learning other types of origami and has moved on to paper cranes and rabbits. Credence soon fills the office with a paper menagerie and Percival can't bring himself to throw any of the paper animals away. So he lets them loiter on his desk and bookshelves, smiles when Credence folds another until he must have hundreds of cranes and rabbits and turtles and fish and flowers. He doesn't mind, as long as it helps Credence.

As the end of November wanes into frigid December, Percival starts encouraging Credence to think of applying for colleges. At first he's resistant to the idea, seeming to believe that he can't leave his sisters with his mother until Percival hands him a copy of his transcript and tries to iterate what a waste of intelligence it would be to throw away his good grades.

With the help of Tina and her sister Queenie, the three of them manage to convince Credence to apply for half a dozen colleges, many of which are out of state. Despite his own feelings about seeing Credence leave, Percival knows an out of state school would be the best chance for the boy to get away from his home situation and abuse, to have the chance to grow into his own person. He can only hope Credence sees it that way too.

Percival finally feels as though he's on the right track with the boy as he leaves work the Monday Credence mails off his college applications. Maybe he can save him yet. There's hope left in the bleak situation.

Winter is truly in full force and December's only halfway through. It's to snow later in the day, and Percival grimaces at the thought, not enjoying the prospect whatsoever. Not when he'll likely have to shovel the front walk and fight for street parking amidst mountains of snow and scores of disgruntled people. He shudders in anticipation, taking another drag from his cigarette.

It's really a habit he should be quitting and he's been doing quite well about it recently. He's down from a pack a day to a handful of indulgent sticks a week, but sometimes stress catches up to him and he needs the relief only nicotine can bring.

The wind whisks away the smoke immediately, curling cold fingers around the exposed length of his throat and seeping into the the edges of his coat. Maybe quitting will be good after all, if winter is as cold as the current weather seems to be promising. At the very least, he won't always be so inclined to go out in the freezing cold for a fix.

He snubs out the cigarette and starts the short trek to the parking lot. The wind nips at him like a hound chasing a fox, biting and snarling at his heels. The lot is mostly empty save for his car and a small handful of others; he's one of the last to leave yet again but that's not unusual.

It's dark already, winter nights falling increasingly earlier. Percival takes a cursory glance over the parking lot, taking care to note the darker corners where the overhead lights do not reach. He knows a thing or two about vigilance, having been attacked and mugged before. He had woken up in the hospital with a patch of hair missing from the back of his head where his assailant had hit him with a crowbar and his wallet missing.

The next two weeks were spent calling banks and agencies to shut down accounts supposedly made in his name. It had been annoying and aggravating trying to reclaim his identity, with endless calls that, _no,_ he really did not spend a thousand dollars on gay porn in a Las Vegas hotel.

As he turns towards his car, a flutter of movement catches Percival’s eye from the other end of the parking lot. Standing hunched in the cold by the bus stop is a tall figure, backlit by the bright light of the sign. Not thinking much of it as whoever they are is too far way to be any kind of threat, Percival climbs into his car and immediately turning on the heat.

The hunched figure is still there when Percival pulls out of the lot, making his usual curve around the bus stop to get onto the road. He nearly stomps on the brake when he realizes exactly who it is, standing in the freezing winter night with frozen hands clawed around a stack of papers. He just barely manages to pull in front of the bus stop without hitting the ledge of the curb and rolls down his window.

“Credence!”

The hunched figure’s head jerks up. Credence peers into the dark interior of the car as he clutches his papers tighter against his chest when the wind renews its attempt to tear them from his fingers. His shoulders hunch further inwards, his tattered coat surely not doing much to keep the cold at bay.

“Mr. Graves,” he greets in surprise.

“What are you doing here so la– no, forget it. Get in the car.”

Credence hesitates for long seconds, blinking owlishly as though confused by the command before backing slightly away. “I can't.”

Percival bites back his annoyance. He's getting cold now too with the window open. He can't even imagine how frozen Credence must feel. Throwing the car into park, he climbs out to walk around to Credence; no use in shouting over the passenger seat. Might as well close up the windows to conserve the heat anyways. It's likely to take a bit to convince Credence yet. If there's anything he's learned over the weeks they've spent together, it's that the boy is _stubborn_. He sighs, his breath pluming out in a frosty mist.

“I'm just going to drive you home,” Percival says.

Credence shakes his head. “I can't,” he repeats.

“Why not?” he asks gently.

A long pause. “I haven't finished my duties yet.”

Percival blinks. “Duties? What duties could possibly keep you out here in this cold? If you need to go somewhere to complete these duties, I can drive you there too.” He glances at the bus schedule. “There isn't another bus for half an hour.”

Credence shakes his head again. “I'm not waiting for the bus.”

“Is someone picking you up then?”

Another shake, no.

Percival gives levels him with a flat look. “Then get in the car.” His patience is wearing thin and Credence is not making it easy on him with his recalcitrant answers. All the while, his ears and fingers feel increasingly numb from the cold and he's dying for the warmth of his car. He only just remembers to keep the annoyance from his voice.

Credence stares back blankly. “My duties are right here, Mr. Graves.” He holds up the stack of pamphlets.

Percival can see from the cover splashed with bright red lettering that they're some kind of religious brochure on the sins of homosexuality and barely restrains from rolling his eyes. _Really_ now _._

“So you're supposed to pass all of these out before you can go home? In the cold? At night? _Credence_ ,” he sighs, exasperated. “Surely this can all wait until tomorrow. It's about to snow soon. There won't be anyone coming by for you to give these papers to.”

Credence swallows and when he replies, his voice is low and tremulous. “I-l must, Mr. Graves. I can't go home until I've finished passing out all of these pamphlets. Ma said so.”

_Of course._

Percival holds out his hand. “I'll have one. In fact, give me all of them.”

Credence gives him one but clutches the rest tighter to himself. “I can't do that, Mr. Graves. God sees all. He would know if I'm dishonest about my duties.”

Percival grits his teeth. The brainwashing job done on this boy is extensive and frankly ridiculous. The tight leash on his patience is rapidly fraying and the first drifts of snow are already falling but he cannot, in his good conscience leave Credence to stay out in the freezing cold all night. Which the boy surely will, going by his stubborn streak. Or the motivating fear of his mother. Whichever is driving him to this brand of madness.

“I'll pass them out _for_ you. Tomorrow. Just give them to me now,” he edges his voice with as much authority as he can muster beyond the chattering of his teeth and adds for good measure, “Don't you trust me?”

Finally, _finally,_ after what seems to be a long internal debate, Credence acquiesces with a full body shiver and gives him the stack. The corner of his mouth quirks sardonically.

“No you won't. I know you're tossing them out.”

Insolent boy.

Percival answers with his own smirk, proud of Credence for the rebuke, small as it is. He reaches over to open the passenger door for him before walking back to the driver’s side, not acknowledging his accusation. He tosses the stack of pamphlets into the backseat, uncaring as a handful scatter onto the floor and beneath the seats. He'll gather and burn them all later.

He staunchly does not think about the new boundary he's overstepping. Buying a starving kid lunch is one thing and trying to ensure he's going to school and applying for college is another. Now, he's pretty much coerced a student into his car, for whatever good and reasonable reason it may be. Even still, it's highly inappropriate. But it's not as though he can leave Credence out in the freezing cold with snow already drifting in fat white flakes from the black sky. At night. In the dead of winter. It would be negligent.

He's already gone this far. Shifting the car into drive, Percival turns to Credence. “Where to?”

*

Credence bites at his lip until he's almost sure he's bleeding. He knows Mr. Graves is already doing so much for him but he's so _selfish_ and he can't help wanting more, so he asks.

“Can we please go somewhere for a bit? I-if you're not busy, I mean. Or you can just drop me off somewhere that's not home. I can't really go back yet. I don't want Ma to think I wasn't spending enough time passing out those pamphlets.”

“Of course,” Mr. Graves says easily, and Credence sighs in relief. He doesn't want to go home yet, not with Ma and Grindelwald waiting for him. Not when he can still stay in Mr. Graves's intoxicating presence for a little bit longer.

Credence sneaks glances as Mr. Graves drives, committing to memory the way the street and traffic lights cast yellow and gold on the planes of his face, the way his fingers rest on the steering wheel, the way his eyes shine bright in the dark. He knows Mr. Graves is an objectively handsome man, but lately he's been thinking a little bit _too_ much on that. He knows it's a terrible sin, but he can't help it. The more time he spends with Mr. Graves, the tighter he's drawn into his orbit and Credence has gotten to a point where he never wants to leave, despite knowing his soul is tipped on the precipice of damnation.

He knows it's foolish anyways, to think this way of Mr. Graves. He knows nothing would ever come of it. Someone like Mr. Graves would not give a second look to someone like Credence if he hadn't been forced to help the poor abused orphan. Credence knows his place in the world, so he has to be content with admiring from afar.

Credence has had exactly one crush before, if he can even call it that. He was in the second grade, eight years old, and he was drawn inexorably towards another boy, Jimmy Kent, had followed him everywhere. Ma had been slightly kinder then, and had occasionally allowed Jimmy to come over to play.

Credence had been fascinated by Jimmy, everything from his soft blond hair to his fancy brand name clothes to the way he gripped his pencil in his left hand instead of his right. He'd always wanted to be near Jimmy, to hold his hand and touch his face, any contact he could get his hands on, despite knowing he really, really shouldn't. Jimmy didn't seem to mind though, just as eager to twine fingers with Credence and hold him close. He had felt so warm around Jimmy, who had filled his days with laughter and light.

That was the happiest year of Credence’s life, until the day Ma walked in on them pressed together in his room. Jimmy had seen something on a TV show and wanted to show Credence, who wasn't allowed to watch TV, for it was full of the Devil’s influence. Ma had found them tumbled together in Credence's bed with Jimmy’s lips pressed against his and she had screamed, furious. He got the lashing of his life that night and Credence never saw Jimmy ever again, despite not even knowing at the time what they did was wrong. He still has a scar now from that night, high on his thigh where the belt had bitten deep.

Thinking now, Credence knows this admiration for Mr. Graves is far different from the childish crush he had on Jimmy. Where Jimmy was all bright and light and a mere curiosity, Mr. Graves is dark and dangerous, a mirror of Credence's own soul, as forbidden and tempting as the apple consumed in Eden. It is as though God had taken his deepest secret desires and formed them into a man, and like everything else touched by God, Mr. Graves is out of Credence's reach.

Mr. Graves drives them to a restaurant, far nicer than any establishment Credence has ever been in, and he cowers in his seat, not wanting to get out of the car. He's still buckled in when Mr. Graves opens the passenger door and Credence stares up with wide eyes.

“I didn't mean you had to take me to get food,” he says quietly, flicking his gaze up to the bright string lights hanging off the cloth awning. “This is too much, Mr. Graves. We can just go sit in the park or something.”

Mr. Graves smiles indulgently and leans in to unbuckle Credence's seatbelt. “I'm quite hungry, Credence,” he says gently. “Please indulge an old man. I know it's only five-thirty, but I prefer to eat early.” He steps away with a wink and a hand guiding Credence's elbow.

Credence steps out of the car and wraps his arms around himself. They're in front of a homey looking Italian restaurant, all dark wood paneling and warm lights. The enormous front window is adorned with a giant wreath, bright and cheerful for the upcoming holidays. Despite the warmth radiating from the place, Credence is still reluctant to step inside, to inconvenience Mr. Graves so much.

Mr. Graves must have noticed the anxiety and panic in Credence's expression because his own face softens considerably as he pulls Credence close with an arm around his shoulder.

“Okay,” he says kindly. “Let's do this instead. We'll order a pizza— Gino's is famous for their pies, they're very good, unless you want something else. We can get whatever you want. We'll take the food and go eat it elsewhere if you're not comfortable here, yes? I'm sorry for the oversight. I should have been more sensitive.”

Credence immediately regrets causing the contrition he finds in Mr. Graves's eyes. He's done nothing wrong. He was only trying to help Credence, who yet again proves to be beyond salvation with his ingratitude. But when he peers inside the restaurant, he feels his anxiety mounting as he scans the crowds. The warm orange light becomes overly hot and unbearable and he wants to _leave._ So he keeps his head down and nods, leaning into Mr. Graves's shoulder. “Pizza sounds good,” he manages to mumble.

Mr. Graves nods, squeezing his arm slightly. “That's my boy.” Credence tries not to give away how his heart stutters in his chest at Mr. Graves’s words as he rummages in his coat pocket and pulls out his car key, pressing it into Credence's palm. “That's the button to unlock the door. You can go back to the car while I wait for the food. There's a button to the right of the steering wheel to turn on the engine. Please turn on the heat and you can put on some music if you like.”

Credence nearly runs back to the car with trembling fingers locked tight around the key fob. He makes sure to brush the snow from his hair and shoulders before he opens the door to keep the seats dry and clean. He sighs in relief once he's back in the dark warmth of the car. He turns on the heat as Mr. Graves asks after staring quizzically at the many buttons on the dash before figuring out which to push but doesn't touch the radio, preferring the calming silence that helps settle his nerves.

Mr. Graves returns with a large box that he places carefully in the backseat, right on top of the discarded pamphlets and hands Credence one of two big paper cups.

“Hot chocolate,” he explains, settling his own in a cup holder as he shifts the car into drive. “I know it might sound like a strange combination with the pizza but it's really not bad. Kind of like the same idea as French fries with ice cream,” he tries, grinning at Credence's confused expression. “You probably haven't tried French fries with ice cream before either. We'll go for that next time.”

 _Next time_ , Credence awes, a fluttering of hope springing bright in his chest before he forces himself to squash it viciously. No purpose in wasting hope on platitudes, even though Mr. Graves has never lied to him before. It's simply no use in getting his hopes up.

They end up eating in the car on a pier not too far from Gino’s, a quiet little outlook over the river with views of Staten Island, New Jersey, and Manhattan. The islands glitter like stars over the dark waves, and Credence isn’t sure if he would rather watch the lights play across the water or watch the lights play across Mr. Graves’s face.

Mr. Graves moves the front seats so they have more leg room to lounge in the small space of the car, explaining apologetically that it's best to stay inside rather than eat on the frozen benches scattered along the pier. Credence really doesn't mind, much preferring their little private space over the promise of freezing wet cold. At least they have heat and the radio, which Mr. Graves turns to a classical station when Credence offers no preference. The small space of the car provides a safe haven for them as the snow falls outside, blanketing the ground in white and speckling the windshield with icy flakes.

Credence ends up eating nearly half the pizza. He chews slowly, to prolong the moments spent with Mr. Graves while he savors the taste of the food. He's never had anything so delicious before; this must be what heaven tastes like. He takes enormous care with each bite, making sure not to leave any splatters or stains on the seats. What a way that would be to repay Mr. Graves's kindness, by dirtying his things.

Credence protests every time Mr. Graves offers him another slice of the pie, but he takes it anyways because it makes Mr. Graves smile. Everytime he smiles, Credence feels an answering clench in his chest that makes the food hard to chew but he swallows it all down, buries his feelings deep and hopes Mr. Graves doesn’t see the adoration shining through in his eyes.

They don’t talk much, and Credence is happy to let the quiet settle over them like a warm blanket, feeling as content as he’s ever been curled in the front seat, his belly full of warm food and hot chocolate. When they do speak, it’s mostly Mr. Graves telling him anecdotes about little things that’ve happened over the week at school and at home, stories about his annoying neighbor Mrs. Chang who won't stop trying to look through his windows, and the endearing things his dog has done.

Credence is happy to sit back and let the gravel bass tones of Mr. Graves’s voice lull him into a deep sense of comfort. The sound wraps around him like a comfortable cocoon that feels safe, and snug and blissful, and he treasures the little things Mr. Graves tells him like small jewels, cherished and dear.

For a few precious hours, Credence can pretend this is how things are, can pretend this is how things _can_ be. He can pretend that he doesn’t have to dread going home to what really awaits him. He can feel wanted and free, bestowed with the privilege of joy, unencumbered by sin and the threat of God.

It's the warmest and fullest he's ever felt, something akin to _happy_. His heart feels as full as his belly, aches with a pleasant pulsing tightness when he looks at Mr. Graves, who smiles at him as though he's proud of Credence, as though Credence is somehow doing him a huge favor. He's never known anyone to look at him like that before and it feels so _good._

He wishes he can stay in this bubble Mr. Graves created forever but he knows the time must end, and all too soon he’s stepping through the door and back into Grindelwald’s foul clutches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your amazing support!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the new tags.

The next time Percival sees Credence is nearly a week later, broken and hurt in a damp basement Hell.

Credence had asked to be dropped off a block from the church and Percival had been more than obliging, just in case his mother saw him getting out of a stranger’s car. That was the last time Percival saw him.

They had been making progress, Percival had thought the day after he drove Credence home. They had a good talk, Credence was finally opening up a little and Percival was so proud of his progress. Sure, he had been reluctant to eat the food Percival would buy for him and even more reluctant to ask for anything not already offered but they were getting somewhere. Baby steps.

But during the following days, Percival quickly realized Credence hadn't been going to school. He did not come to the dean’s office during lunch, nor was he at the bus stop after school passing out more of those vituperative leaflets.

Worried, Percival began to search in earnest for the boy but despite his and Tina's combined frustration and diligent combing of the school halls, no one knew where he was. It was Queenie, the guidance counselor and Tina's sister who finally found him after a tearful Chastity Barebone came into her office that Friday afternoon and stuttered out the truth behind an incoherent bluster of tears. Credence needed help and he was at the church, was all she could muster, refusing to say anything else.

Percival had leapt out of his seat when Queenie and Tina had delivered the news and his coat was thrown over his shoulders before they had even finished explaining the situation.

Tina had grabbed his arm and told him firmly that she would go with him too. He had growled that she would only slow him down, nearly out of his mind with a mixture of fear and anger, a deep sense of dread that settles like ice in his stomach. He knew innately that something was very wrong, and Credence was in danger, despite the lack of information. Tina’s eyes had been wide at the state of his agitation, alarmed if not a little scared and she had insisted on going with him, to keep him rational if nothing else.

“Fine,” he'd snarled, knowing Tina was right. At least one of them should have a clear head.

“Oh, honey,” Queenie had said, patting his arm as they moved towards the door, holding a sobbing Chastity tight against her side. “Please call us as soon as you find him, okay?”

Percival had nodded numbly, already halfway out with Tina right at his heels. He couldn't remember the drive to the New Salem Philanthropic Society even if he was asked under torture. He could only hope that he hadn't broken too many traffic laws racing across the city, but what's a few tickets or summons, he'd scoffed, stomping harder on the gas.

And now standing in front of the dilapidated church, with fear and adrenaline thrumming through his veins, Percival has to take deep breaths to maintain any semblance of calm. It feels as though there’s a dark beast residing in his chest, right above his heart and between his lungs that’s clawing at his throat until he feels as though he’s about to choke on the sensation. He knows distantly the only way to appease that beast is to find Credence and ensure his well-being. He doesn't stop to think about how this boy has grown to affect him so much, to snap his control clean in half as though it is nothing. That doesn't matter, won't matter. All he can think about is Credence.

“Do you think we should call the police?” Tina asks nervously, staring up at the front doors. “We can go inside and look while we wait for them to come. Churches are open for worshipers during the week, right? We can go in. We should at least try to find Credence and make sure he's okay.”

Percival nods numbly, barely hearing a word she said. All he could think of was finding Credence and an endless litany of _please don't be hurt please don't be hurt please don't be hurt_.

He barely waits for her to make the call, only catching snatches of “yes, I’d like to report an incident— I think one of my students are hurt at home— he hasn’t been at school for days, we haven’t seen him in— no, we don't know for sure he's hurt but— you don't understand— he comes to school with signs of abuse on a near daily bas— _no,_ I don’t have any reason to believe he might’ve run away from home— we’re his teachers— I— okay, please just hurry.” She turns to Percival with furrowed brows. “I don't think they really believe me. They certainly won't hurry.” She looks around at the empty cracked streets strewn with garbage. “Definitely won't hurry for this area.”

Percival huffs an angry breath before striding up to the church, not saying anything in reply. The front doors of the church open easily enough with a soft push. The inside is quiet as a grave, nary a soul in sight. The carving of Jesus looms above them enshrouded in shadows as they strain to see in the dim light that streams in weak trickles from the small windows along the wall. They walk past the pews, making sure to look through all of them but they don't find anyone.

“I don't actually know where the living area of the church is,” Tina whispers, voice hushed to match the oppressing silence of the place. “There has to be stairs or a door to the private area, right? Is it still trespassing if we have reasonable belief that Credence is hurt?”

“I'm going to check the back,” Percival replies gruffly, not wanting to think about how hurt Credence might actually be. He's already out the door and walking towards the alley he had once dragged Credence into a lifetime ago.

He walks slowly down the narrow brick alleyway, past the garbage bins and stacked recycling to find a wooden door sunken into the church wall near the back. He tries the door to find it unlocked, but the supposed good luck of being able to turn the handle leaves him feeling cold and his skin prickles with dread.

It could mean anything. The Barebones might have forgotten to lock the door or someone else had reentered the living quarters. Or they heard Percival and Tina in the public area and are waiting on one of them to be stupid enough to trespass.

Nevertheless, with his heart thundering behind his ribs, Percival pushes the door open to be met with a small landing and then stairs that go up to the second floor on the left and stairs going down to what seems to be a basement on the right. He swallows hard and takes the risk of calling out, “Credence?”

The whimper and soft skittering Percival hears from the lower level has him all but running down the steps, trying to go as fast as his legs would carry him to the basement. The thick wooden door he finds there _is_ locked, and no amount of jiggling the knob would get it to open.

“Credence?” Percival calls through the door, hoping Credence is at least well enough to answer. He's answered with a muffled yell of surprise and what sounds to be a grunt of pain. The feral beast in his chest roars in fury at the sound of Credence's pain and he contemplates kicking down the door, but there isn't enough space in the landing to get enough of a running start for that to be effective. He paces the small space in frustration, trying to think while maintaining just enough calm to reassure Credence.

“Credence,” he calls again, proud that his voice is only shaking a little. “It's Mr. Graves. I'm going to get you out of there okay? I'm going to help, I promise. I’m so sorry, Credence,” he adds, leaning against the door, “I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner that you were hurt. But I’m here now. I’m here for you. Hang in there for a little while longer.”

Percival hears a shuddering gasp behind the door and a choked sob that makes the beast in his chest keen and scratch harder against him, fighting to claw its way out. Percival swallows it down as much as he’s able, reaching into his pocket for his phone to call Tina to update her on finding Credence.

The call goes to voicemail, and immediately Percival’s gaze snaps up to the landing above the stairs. Something’s happened to Tina, there’s no way she wouldn’t have answered his call in this situation.

Reluctantly, Percival leaves Credence with staunch reassurances that he would be back, and with help to get the door open before taking the stairs back up, two at a time. By the time he's back in the worship area, his blood is rushing so loudly in his ears, he can hear little else.

He walks slowly down the pews, looking for signs of Tina. Maybe she had tried to go around the back too— no, he would've seen her on his way out. Maybe she went to search the back of the altar. Maybe her area of the church had no cell reception. Maybe she went out to the front to wait for the police to arrive. Maybe she's already talking to the police and didn't hear her phone.

Percival is walking along the nave when he feels the small hairs on his neck stand on end and before he could fully turn around, there's a loud _crack_ and a throbbing pain in his head. He's nearly blinded by the spots suddenly dancing in his vision and he almost doesn't notice as the world tips on an axis and he's tipping with it.

“Fuck,” Percival swears, going down hard. He lands on his elbow and barely has the consciousness to quickly roll over when he feels another swift movement behind him and just manages to avoid the heavy foot aimed at his chest. His head swims as he pushes himself up from the floor, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He ignores the throb of his head and turns to meet the manic stare of the man who he now _knows_ is the one who's been tormenting Credence.

“You're trespassing,” Grindelwald sneers, twirling a long candlestick from the altar in his hand. That must've been what Percival had been hit with, he realizes.

Percival tries for calm. There is no reason to match crazy with crazy. Yet. He pretends his head isn't killing him and looks around the church casually. He spreads his hands and replies, “I believe I'm allowed to be in a church when it is open for business, such as it is that the front door was unlocked for worship. I'm not in the wrong here. If anything, I've been wrongfully assaulted.” His last sentence comes out as a growl, his anger peeking through.

Grindelwald only smirks in reply, leaning in close. His pale eyes are glittering dangerously as he says, “we both know why you're here. You're looking for the boy, aren't you? Don't lie in front of God. I saw you with him.”

Percival struggles to maintain his façade of calm, holding the beast at bay with tooth and nail. He quietly assesses Grindelwald as they stand toe to toe. They're of a height and if Grindelwald is to attack him again, Percival thinks his chances are good, head injury notwithstanding. He has the hungering darkness in him baying for the blood of the monster that hurt Credence on his side. So he simply tilts his head and volleys, “and what is he to you?”

“He's my little whore,” Grindelwald replies simply, caressing the candlestick lovingly, mocking. “And I don't like to share, mister…?”

Despite the blood boiling in his veins until he's seeing red, Percival chooses to reply. “Graves.” Grindelwald _will_ remember the name.

“Mr. Graves,” Grindelwald spits, voice full of venom. “Oh you should see the boy now. See what I've done to him, _for_ him. He should be grateful for my lessons and my mercies. At first, we were only trying to save him from his impurities, but why try to wash the sin from the Devil when it's impossible?”

Percival is nearly rolling his eyes by that point. He probably would have if the action didn’t make him feel nauseous with the pain in his head. _Fuck_ , but this bastard is talkative, pompous and _dramatic_ as all Hell.

“Why not enjoy a little bit of that sin every once in awhile,” Grindelwald continues gleefully, “especially when it comes in such a pretty package? That's all the good that boy will ever amount to, anyways, as I'm sure you already know. As if you could've resisted bending him ov—”

Percival has heard enough. He silences Grindelwald with a right hook that sends him stumbling backwards, taking the other man by surprise. Not giving him any time to recover, Percival follows with another punch that knocks so hard into Grindelwald's fleshy cheek, Percival feels the reverberating force travel up his own arm.

Grindelwald gives back as good as he gets, returning Percival’s hit with a kick to the gut that nearly sends him doubling over and turns to swing the candle stick into Percival’s chest. It connects with a dull thud, catching his sternum and knocking the wind from Percival’s lungs. He’s sure something’s probably broken because _fucking Hell_ , it hurts, but he ignores the pain, ploughs through it and replaces it with his fury. He recovers enough to duck the punch aimed at his face as he headbutts Grindelwald into the pews.

Grindelwald gasps for breath in a heap on the floor as Percival kicks the candlestick out of reach. He could easily use it himself but he's _enjoying_ the satisfying ache in his knuckles as he brings his fist down again into the foul creature beneath him, again and again, unleashing his wrath as the beast in his chest howls in satisfaction.

Percival can feel the _snap_ of bone beneath his hand as it connects with a rib, and another _crack_ as he backhands Grindelwald across the face. He only stops when he feels hands grabbing at his shoulders and he whirls around to realize it's Tina and she's sobbing as she yanks at him. He’s breathing hard as he stares at her, each breath ragged and edged with pain, unrecognizing until her words snap him out of his daze.

“Stop, Graves— Percival. _Percival! Please!_ You're killing him. _Stop_. You're not helping Credence if you keep hitting his torturer like this. You'll be going to jail with him at this point! Stop, please, for Credence.”

 _Credence_. That's why he's here. That's why they're both here. He's wasting his time satisfying his own bloodlust when he's here for his boy and he needs to _get to him right now._ They're supposed to be saving him, and yet he's wasting his time on the likes of Grindelwald, who lays wheezing on the floor.

Who has the gall to turn over and stare directly into Percival's eyes as he sneers, “oh you should've heard the way he screams. Such a _pretty_ voice,” Grindelwald chuckles, laughter dissolving into wet coughs.

Percival nearly launches himself at Grindelwald again, were it not for Tina's hard grip around his shoulders and the door of the church flying open to reveal two policemen standing in the entry. _About fucking time_.

*

Credence had known immediately that allowing Mr. Graves to drive him home was a mistake. Despite asking to be dropped off a block away from the church, he still somehow managed to bump into Grindelwald along the way, who had emerged from the darkness of an alley and grabbed Credence's arm, startling him half to death.

“M-Mr. Grindelwald,” Credence had stuttered, unable to keep the dread from his voice and Grindelwald had grinned viciously, savoring his discomfort. Credence's blood had immediately run cold, his body trembling half from trepidation and half from the cold, hoping against hope that Grindelwald had not seen him climb out of Mr. Graves's sleek black car. Of course he had no such luck.

Grindelwald had stalked around him in a predator’s prowl, ungainly and inelegant but threatening all the same. His mouth was stretched in a wide grin, mean as anything, his pallid eyes glinting like marbles in the dim streetlight. All the while, snow fell around them in a blanketing softness, a mocking facsimile to the earlier ambiance that made Credence feel so safe and happy when he was with Mr. Graves.

“What do we have here, boy?” Grindelwald's voice was sibilant, low and gleeful. “Don't you know how late it is? Not only had you not been performing your godly duties, you were caught consorting with… who was that exactly, hmm? He's the same man who keeps coming by the church every week now. Is he your john? Do you bend over for him every night? You truly are a grotesque abomination aren't you, you little whore. You simply cannot help yourself. We've tried so hard to exorcise the Devil and sin from you, but clearly that has no effect. I've been far too gentle with you, boy. I suppose we'll just have to try… something _new_.” The glint in his eyes was sadistic and gleeful.

With that proclamation, Grindelwald had resumed his grip on Credence's arm and all but dragged him the half block up to the church. Never had Credence felt such fear. He knew what was to come, but he would not beg for mercy, especially not from Grindelwald, not when that vile man spewed such hypocrisy. Nor would he pray and beg salvation from God, not when He's turned a deaf ear and blind eye to Credence's pain for so long. He was truly all alone so he would not beg.

Ma had met them at the door with a hard gleam in her eyes and her mouth pressed into a tight line. Credence could read the disappointment and anger rolling off of her in waves. She had watched as Grindelwald pushed him roughly through the door with a mean, “I found your son. He was coming out of the car of that man I've warned you about. I told you your boy was up to no good.”

“He is not my son,” Ma had replied coldly, shutting the front door with a click that echoed with finality. “He is the product of a sinful, disgusting woman. It's no wonder nothing can fix him.”

Grindelwald had dragged him to the front of the church, thrown him hard against the altar, the edge of the podium catching against his ribs and knocked the breath from his lungs. Credence stared up at the carving of a God that hated him and clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.

“Ma,” Credence had gasped, more shocked than hurt. While he had always known she wasn't his real mother, she had never spoken of his biological family before, and even in her angriest vitriol, her voice had never sounded so cold and venomous. Maybe somewhere deep inside of him, he had foolishly hoped she would give him a drop more compassion than what Grindelwald was about to show. But his hopes were in vain.

“I am not your Ma,” she had said, turning to him with flat eyes and her hand outstretched.

Credence knew what came next. His hands automatically went to his belt and they were shaking so hard, the buckle was already jangling its cheerful melody before he'd even gotten the loop out.

“Take off your coat,” Ma had commanded, her voice steel.

His eyes skittered over to where Chastity and Modesty were fearfully watching behind the pews and shook his head, begging them not to watch. He was slightly relieved when Chastity nodded and wrapped her arm around their youngest sister, gently leading her away. Credence did not want them witnessing even more of his pain and shame, especially not when he knew this would the the ugliest display yet. He wanted to preserve their innocence where he could.

Credence kept his eyes trained on the cross behind Jesus as the belt came down on his back, barely flinching at the first hit but soon, he was gasping and curling into himself as the lashes kept raining down. He hunched in as much as he could, gathering his limbs into a ball to minimize the target of his body but the belt was merciless, striping across his back and legs until his knees buckled and he was crashing towards the ground.

All the while, his eyes were trained on his God as tears streamed down his face blurring his vision. He bit down hard on his lips to stifle the screams until all he could taste was the acrid tang of copper flooding his mouth. He didn’t realize he was curled up on the floor until he felt Grindelwald’s heavy foot connecting with his ribs and he felt something _crack_. He grunted in pain, still stubbornly swallowing his screams. And there was a hand sliding into Credence’s hair, grip tightening into an ironfisted grip, yanking him harshly to his feet.

Grindelwald had pressed his face close to Credence's wet cheek and whispered menacingly, “let's show you how Hell really feels like, hmm?” as Ma watched dispassionately.

Credence was dragged to a door hidden behind the alcove of the altar. His eyes had widened in fear but the grip on his hair was merciless, unrelenting.

“No,” he had rasped, his voice barely making it past the sharp pain in his chest where he was sure a rib had broken. “No no no _please_ ,” he had finally gotten to the point of begging.

Grindelwald had smiled maliciously and pushed him so hard, Credence tumbled down the basement steps. He had thrown out an arm to catch his balance in the darkness but it wasn't enough, and down he went with another sickening _crack_ that left a sharp pain reverberating up his wrist. He nearly bit through his tongue to keep the cry of pain contained. The door above him slammed shut with an audible _snick_ of a lock and then the slide of a deadbolt and Credence was left in the silence of the dark, damp room.

He’d been locked in the basement once before. Credence was nine years old at the time, and had dared to try to call Jimmy Kent. When Ma saw the number on the list of dialed calls, she had locked him in the basement for three days without food.

Credence doesn't know how long he's in the basement this time. It could be hours or it could be days. The pervasive darkness clouds his perception of time and the relentless nothingness drives him deep into his own mind. The constant throb of his wrist and chest keeps him awake in a semi-conscious state as he drifts from one thought to another, lost. He thinks the most often of Mr. Graves, of his gentle hands and soft voice, his kindness that makes Credence feel human. The thoughts keep him warm for a little while.

They build a small bubble of fantasy that expands and expands until it expands a little too much, and the bubble bursts and Credence is abruptly awake again, still in his basement Hell. He cringes away, back against a corner of the basement when a light flickers on overhead and there's Grindelwald silhouetted in the door. He almost starts praying until he remembers prayers don't work, not when the Devil laughs in the face of the God that's turned His back on Credence. He's truly all alone, there's no hope to have, no help to come.

Credence can only wrap his body around his broken wrist and rib, try to block out the sensations of Grindelwald's hands on him, tearing at his pants and pushing him down against the filthy concrete floor. He bites through his lip to stifle his cries until Grindelwald is done with him, leaving him scraped raw and hurting in new places and what is most definitely blood dripping down his legs. He barely hears the words when Grindelwald tells him, “remember, boy. _This_ is all you'll ever be good for. And I'm going to make sure that man won't ever want you like this anymore by the time I'm done with you.”

He curls tighter into himself as Grindelwald leaves. He feels dirty, and used, and disgusting, wants to tear off his own skin. He wants to be rid of his own body, tear himself to shreds and give in to the darkness that grows inside of him. But mostly, he just wants to be nothing at all.

The only way to keep those thoughts at bay is to close his eyes and think of Mr. Graves. He hangs onto the memory of the man and wishes he could summon him, but Credence knows that even if he could, Mr. Graves would not want anything to do with him anymore. Grindelwald is right. He would not bother with someone so ruined, broken beyond repair.

Credence thinks he must've been in the basement for days, his stomach is growling, long since empty from the dinner Mr. Graves bought him. His broken wrist only pounds in a full ache now, pulsing with the weak beat of his heart that hurts beneath the cracked ribs.

Grindelwald visits him three times in the dark, each time worse than the last until Credence no longer has the willpower to bite back his screams. He knows dimly that Grindelwald drinks in his pain like elixir, savors it as Credence cries into the burrow of his arms while the Devil ruins him again and again, marking Credence from the inside with his filth and unholiness.

It's worse than all the beatings and humiliations he's ever endured, worse than the nights Grindelwald would bring himself off on Credence in his bed. Grindelwald has finally done the thing he hadn't dared to do with Ma in hearing range.

It's much worse than anything else he's ever done because this is the final step of Credence’s ruination, the ultimate strike upon his soul that brands him with the Devil’s mark. It leaves him irredeemable in the eyes of God as well as in the eyes of Mr. Graves, both of whom are blurring together in his mind as it wastes away in the damp dark Hell.

He starts hallucinating as he loses himself. He thinks he hears Mr. Graves outside the door, coming to save him, promising to help, to take him away from this dim nothingness. But it's all in his head, Mr. Graves isn't actually there. It's his mind falling into delirium, clinging to its last shreds of hope that will soon fade. No matter how much he cries and begs and prays, Credence knows deep down that no one is coming for him.

Mr. Graves and Miss Goldstein must've forgotten him by now, relieved they no longer have to deal with the needy orphan. Glad to have him out of their lives.

Credence has only himself and this torture now. There is no God left. There is no Mr. Graves left. He had never deserved them anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SDLKGHKSDHGFFF I'm so sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

Percival watches Grindelwald like a hawk as they cuff him to the back of an ambulance. As far as Percival is concerned, they should just throw him into the back of a police car and let him bleed out internally, or rather yet, finish the job himself and kill him with his bare hands. He doesn't stop staring until the paramedics close up the bay doors and drive the Devil away.

After the main object of his ire is gone, Percival nearly starts another fight, this time with the EMTs when they try to forcibly keep him by the ambulances when all he wants is to get to Credence. The adrenaline is still thrumming in his veins, edges him into something frantic like lunacy while he waits impatiently for them to take down the basement door and retrieve Credence. He’s so focused on looking down into the end of the alley, he largely ignores the paramedic assessing the state of his sternum and head wound.

Tina is stalking back and forth in front of where he sits on the bumper of an ambulance, on the phone with her sister explaining what had happened. Her hands are shaking still and her voice comes in broken gasping stutters. Her panic-shrill voice combined with the pacing makes Percival's head pound and he wishes she would fucking stop but he doesn't have the heart to ask.

Tina had explained earlier she hadn't gotten his call because she was at the back of the church, where there was no cell reception. He was just glad Grindelwald hadn't hurt her or he really would've killed him, regardless of the consequences.

After what feels like an eternity, they bring out a stretcher and Percival’s heart nearly stops when he sees Credence. His boy is laid out on the narrow plank, looking deathly pale with dark bruises coloring his face and neck. He looks like he's barely breathing at all, unconscious as the paramedics wheel him out. His legs are covered beneath a sheet but Percival can tell he's not wearing pants and the implications of all of it leave him nauseous and enraged as he recalls Grindelwald’s taunting words from earlier.

Tina gasps at the sight of Credence, clapping her hand over her mouth and rushes towards the stretcher as she tells Queenie she'll call her back. Percival moves to leave for it too but he’s stopped by one of the paramedics tending to him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says sympathetically. “But you need to go to the hospital too. We need to monitor you for concussions and run some x-rays to make sure your sternum isn't cracked. We’ll be taking you in this ambulance.”

“Look,” Percival growls, all too aware how sharp his voice sounds. “I will go to the hospital but I will go in the same ambulance as him,” he points towards where Credence is getting loaded up to further his point, voice brooking no argument in its calm fury.

He pushes off his seat with a grunt and leaves without waiting for her response. His head is pounding like a motherfucker by the time he climbs into the back of the other ambulance and glares the paramedics into submission that he _will_ be traveling to the hospital with Credence and Tina.

Up close, Credence looks even worse and the beast inside of Percival that had gone to sleep after putting his fist into Grindelwald's face rears its head again. Despite the ache in his knuckles, the temptation to punch something else is near overwhelming.

Tina is staring at Percival with concern as he stares down at Credence, blankly cataloging the blacks and blues on his boy’s face, the mottling dark on his high cheekbones, the ring of dark spots around his neck and the shallow rattling of his labored breath. The realization of how close they came to possibly losing Credence grips hard at Percival, leaves him numb and angry and vengeful in turns.

Credence is semi-awake, confused and slightly awed as though he doesn't actually think he's seeing Percival and Tina. Percival can only hold onto his uninjured hand as the paramedics finish loading up, pressing his forehead against Credence's skin and hopes and prays to a god he doesn't believe in that it's not too late to save Credence still after this first trial by fire when there are so many more ahead.

At the hospital, Credence is taken away from him and Tina to be treated for his injuries while a nurse forcibly pushes Percival into a curtained section of the trauma unit to look over his own hurts. She pokes and prods at his head, making sucking sounds with her teeth at the mat of blood in his hair and the blooming bruise on his chest.

“You're going to need an x-ray for that,” she says pointing at his sternum.

Percival almost argues until both the nurse and Tina turn twin scathing glares on him.

“I'm fucking fine,” Percival growls half heartedly after his exam and they’re returned to a waiting room to wait on Credence's status. The doctor told Percival he had a bruised sternum and a hairline fracture on his third rib, passed him a prescription for painkillers and sent them on their way. Not much to be done about a cracked rib and a large bruise except to not overexert himself, which the nurse attending Percival told him pointedly as though knowing he would not listen.

“Fine? _Fine?_ ” Tina exclaims incredulously, voice gone high with indignation and disbelief. “You took a piece of _metal_ to the chest and head. How are you fine?”

Percival winces at the octave of her voice. “Yes, Tina, I'm fine,” he repeats firmly, head pounding. “You're making too big a deal out of this. I appreciate your concern but this isn't anything I can't handle.”

Tina glares at him for a furious moment before abruptly rising to her feet and declaring that she needs some coffee in order to further deal with him, does he want any. She stomps away before Percival could reply, muttering under her breath something that sounds suspiciously like, “fucking men who can't admit it when they need fucking help acting like fucking children,” followed by a another string of colorful curses.

Percival sighs and settles back into the uncomfortable chair, trying to mentally prepare himself for when he can finally see Credence.

There are so many issues that need to be addressed, beginning with his own feelings about Credence and the entire situation. He has to deal with his own fierce protectiveness that Credence inspires, as well as Credence's innate ability to shatter all of his control. It's something dangerous that if Percival is a smarter or stronger man, he would not stand for it.

He's already in so deep, this need to save Credence at all costs, he's barely even questioning _why_ , and really, that's the most dangerous thing Credence does to him. Credence takes away Percival's faculties, destroys his self control, questions every belief he's built about himself and Percival, the fool, doesn't even question _why_ Credence has that power. That doesn't matter, won't matter.

Because how can he begrudge his boy this little shred of control in a world where he has none at all? There's another reason to the _why_ anyways. Percival simply doesn't care, not anymore. He’s willing to give Credence this, and it’s time to stop thinking about it. It would do no one any good to be trapped in his cycle of self doubt. He has a singular objective: help Credence. It really is as simple as that.

He would give Credence anything that's in his power to give, starting with justice for his hurts. He has calls to make, speak with people he never expected to speak to again, much less ask for their help. His vanity and pride is unimportant in this case, not when Credence needs the best to help fight this uphill battle. He makes the calls as he waits, speaks with gritted teeth and squashed pride, reminding himself in a silent litany that this is all for _Credence Credence Credence_.

When they finally let Percival see Credence, Tina still hasn’t returned from her coffee break. Percival suspects she might’ve gone for a walk or a longer call with Queenie. It’s been a long and taxing day. He cannot begrudge her whatever comfort she needs in the horrors they’re currently facing so he texts her Credence’s room number and walks off to find his room.

When the elevator doesn't come fast enough, Percival takes the stairs, two at a time until he's on the sixth floor trauma unit. The nurses at the reception area give him alarmed looks as he sweeps by them, intent on his objective. He would not have any of them stopping him now, not when Credence is just meters away.

The first sight of Credence laying in a big white hospital bed hits Percival in the solar plexus like a battering ram and he nearly doubles over at the sight, despite seeing him just hours before in the ambulance. Somehow, the sight of his injuries is only registering _now_ , hitting Percival where it hurts the most, right between the space of his ribs and lungs and he has to sit heavily down into the chair by the bed.

Credence looks so _small_ and _frail_ in the sea of white sheets, his face a topographical map of bruises, all of them sickly blotches of yellow and black and blue and purple, the worst being the dark puce smudges under his eyes. His lip is busted, cracked down the middle and swollen red. There's a row of stitches high on his forehead snaking in this hairline. His left arm is in a cast strapped to his side and IV lines attached to bags of clear liquid are inserted into his other wrist.

And beneath the hospital gown and sheets, Percival knows there are other hurts, both visible and invisible. They're the ones that will take the longest to heal.

Percival wants to punch something, break things, set free again the feral beast living between his ribs and let it take its vengeance. He wants to swing his bare fists just to feel the satisfying crunch of bone again, break every one of Grindelwald’s filthy limbs that _dared_ to touch his boy, destroy entire worlds and set fire to everything before him just to assuage the rage he feels at seeing Credence in pain. He selfishly wants but this is not about Percival.

It's about Credence, who is blinking awake slowly, bleary under the heavy weight of drugs and painkillers. Who is looking at Percival with glassy eyes that shine bright with tears and some unfathomable expression of gratitude as though Percival had saved him, even though he hadn’t. Not yet. But he will. Percival will do anything to save Credence.

\---

Credence wakes in snatches of blurry noise and color, and then all at once. The first sight he sees is Mr. Graves, whose presence immediately suffuses him with a warmth he hasn't felt in days. It must be his delirious brain feeding him phantom images.

There's no way he's escaped the basement, he's as good as dead with Grindelwald's abuse and Ma’s indifference. There is no one coming for him so it must all be a dream. But yet, the feeling of warmth doesn't leave him, even as a cotton-fuzz weight sits upon his chest that makes his head feel blurry and his eyes heavy. He feels safe somehow, and that's how Credence knows for sure that this is all in his head.

He's never felt safe before, not really, the closest he's come has been with Mr. Graves and the fact that he's in this fever-dream only cements the surreality of it. Since it's a dream anyways, Credence can indulge a little, before he's rudely awaken or when Grindelwald comes back for him.

Credence languishes in the warmth, stretching a lazy hand out, not expecting to be able to touch any of what he sees. He's slightly surprised when he feels warm fingers wrapping around his, a gentle tug and a press of skin. There's Mr. Graves above him smiling softly, brushing a hand against his forehead, gently pushing back his hair. Mr. Graves looking concerned and caring and so handsome, it hurts. This must be what Heaven is like, if Credence is to ever be granted that privilege.

Credence sighs, gripping as tight as he's able, pretends everything is real, pretends Mr. Graves is really there and they're both in a soft white room where nothing hurts. Moments later, everything falls away again into a soft cocooning darkness that Credence is unable to fight.

When he wakes again, Credence knows it’s reality because everything hurts.

The pain comes crashing down all at once. It's nearly suffocating in its intensity and the gasp it pulls from his lungs sets about a flurry of activity by his bedside.

_Bedside._

Credence slowly comes to the realization that he's laying on something soft that mutes the pain a little, instead of the damp concrete ground he expects. He looks around the room, the movement of his neck sending new waves of pain down his shoulders but he needs to know where he is. He's met with the sight of blank white walls and sea foam curtains, a stand at the foot of the bed, an IV line that goes into the back of  his hand, and— he's in a hospital. Somehow. How did he get here? How—

“Credence,” a low voice rasps and Credence's attention immediately snaps to his bedside, breath catching in his throat.

How did he not notice Mr. Graves sitting there? Is this still his collapsing mind conjuring up apparitions as it hangs onto the last shreds of sanity after all? Is this even real? How can this possibly be real? This is not real. It can't be real.

The visions are getting more and more vivid now, coalescing into a facsimile of reality, a horrible beautiful parody in which Credence is somehow saved from his fate. This is God’s mockery of him, insult upon injury, filling his head with these ghosts of hope.

Credence is only aware that he's hyperventilating when he feels the ache in his side as his lungs expand, pushing against the broken ribs and the feeling of Mr. Graves's strong arms curling around his shoulders to hold him still. The weight of his arms feels so _real_ and Credence curses his own traitorous mind for doing this to him, to tantalize him with this dream before the end.

Before he realizes what's happening, wracking sobs are shaking Credence’s body, making his chest ache and twinge, pounds against the pain of his torso. He feels like he's going to fly apart from the force of the tears streaming uncontrollably from his eyes. All the while, his vision of Mr. Graves is holding him tight against his broad chest, pressing soft whispers against his ear as he trembles.

How sweet and painful it is to be given this fantastical mirage when all he has to wake up to is darkness and even more severe pains than what he's currently experiencing. There will certainly be no kind Mr. Graves embracing him.

It takes Credence long minutes to realize he's muttering something to himself. A string of denial, “this isn't real. Please stop this. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. This is too good to be true. It's not real,” whispered between hiccoughing sobs.

It takes Credence several more minutes to realize Mr. Graves is speaking as he strokes a gentle palm against the nape of his neck, his hand soothing and gently burning against Credence's skin. Credence barely understands the words Mr. Graves is saying, only catches shreds of, “this is real, my boy. I'm so, so, so sorry I couldn't come for you earlier. I'm sorry. But this is real. I'm here now. And I'm not going to leave. I am so fucking _sorry_.”

Unable to bear the apologies coming from Mr. Graves, Credence struggles away and begs, “please stop. Please stop apologizing to me.”

Only when he pulls away does Credence realize the state of Mr. Graves, who looks as disheveled as he's ever seen him. His hair is in disarray, his clothing rumpled as though he's been wearing the same outfit for days and there's days-old stubble shading his cheeks and chin. There's a shadow of pain in Mr. Graves's dark eyes and a stiffness in his movements as he mirror Credence, pulling back to give him space.

That jarring image is nearly enough to convince Credence he's woken up, because not even in his worst dreams would he hurt Mr. Graves. He pinches himself anyways for confirmation and doesn't miss the small smile on Mr. Graves as he feels the sharp sting of his own fingers on his thigh.

“How can this be real?” Credence asks anyways, hope stuck high in his throat.

It takes a long time for Mr. Graves to reply and when he finally does, it sounds like he's choosing his words very carefully. “Your sister Chastity was very brave,” he finally says. “She came to Miss Goldstein and told her what was happening with you and that was how we found you.”

At the mention of his sister, Credence starts shaking. “H-how are they? My sisters? Are they alright? Where are they? What about my Ma? Is she okay too?”

A darkness passes over Mr. Graves's features at the mention of his mother and Credence can see the muscle in his jaw clench and jump beneath the skin.

“Your sisters are fine, Credence,” Mr. Graves's tone is even and soft even as a warm anger burns in his eyes. “They're going to come visit you after school today. You're in a hospital right now, healing.” Credence is glad Mr. Graves doesn't ask if he remembers what happened. How could he forget? “Your M— _Mary Lou_ was arrested with Grindelwald,” Mr. Graves doesn't miss Credence's flinch at that name, “for assault, battery, and abuse, amongst other charges.”

Credence sucks in a sharp breath that makes his ribs twinge. He's still unsure how to feel about his Ma despite everything. He knows the logical emotion for her would be anger and resentment and even hatred but he simply cannot bring himself to summon more than a cold numbness.

As though sensing his turmoil, Mr. Graves's hand reaches out to close around Credence's uninjured hand, mindful of the IV lines running under the skin. Credence stares down at their hands intertwined together, Mr. Graves's nearly big enough to engulf his own bony scarred hand but gentle as anything.

“I know this is— a lot, to say the least, Credence,” Mr. Graves says, voice unbearably kind. “But I want you to know that I'm here for you. Every single step of the way. No matter what you need.”

Credence can feel the tears edging near the corners of his eyes again. “I'm sorry, Mr. Graves.”

“Why are you apologizing to me, my boy?”

Credence sucks in a deep breath, ignoring the pain and tries not to regret his next words, knowing they could send Mr. Graves away forever. Credence is giving him that option. “I've caused so much trouble for you,” he says, looking away. “I've caused so much trouble for you and Miss Goldstein. I don't deserve all of this fuss. I'll be fine on my own, really. I'm barely hurt at all. Thank you for helping me but you don't need to bear my burden anymore.”

Mr. Graves sighs and mutters something that sounds like _fucking hell_ under his breath. “Credence, please look at me,” Mr. Graves says but Credence stubbornly keeps his head down, unable to bring himself to obey.

Gentle fingers are pressing against his chin and softly but firmly tilting his head up until Credence looks at Mr. Graves, whose eyes are overly-bright in the white glare of the overhead fluorescents.

“Credence,” he says, voice firm, “I _choose_ to be here. Right now, nothing is as important as you. I _chose_ to come here to see you once I found out you were hurt. Don't you know I was worried about you all week when I didn't see you? Both Miss Goldsteins were worried too. We were all worried. And we care about you. You'll never be a burden so please stop thinking like that. We want to help you. _I_ want to help you. I'm _going_ to help you. I've failed you for far too long. I'm not going to let you get hurt ever again.”

Mr. Graves pauses, a slight smile tugging his lips despite the glimmer of wetness in his eyes. His hand is still holding Credence’s chin up to meet his eyes, a loose touch that Credence can break away from at any time. “Besides,” Mr. Graves adds, tone light. “I haven’t used any of my vacation days in about ten years. It’s a great time to cash them in now, with Christmas holidays a week away.”

The absurdity of the statement hits Credence hard and he feels an unexplainable urge to giggle bubbling in his chest. It bursts from him as a laughing gasp, spilling over the pain in his ribs and he’s unable to stop it, a near-hysterical joy that Mr. Graves inspires in him. Soon, Mr. Graves is laughing too, their foreheads tipping together as they’re overcome by the absurdity of everything.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” Credence murmurs, looking up voluntarily to meet his eyes, feeling awed.

“Anything, my boy,” Mr. Graves replies, and he sounds like he means it.


	9. Chapter 9

The first call Percival makes after he leaves Credence’s bedside for the first time in two days is the easiest one he'll make that day. He steps out of the hospital and starts walking aimlessly, ignoring the cold brushing icy fingers against the skin not covered by his coat and scarf. He lights a cigarette as he pulls out his phone.

Picquery picks up on the third ring, sounding disgruntled with having to talk to him on a Sunday.

“Percival,” she says tartly, sounding none too happy. They're not the kind of friends who call on each other for social reasons, not anymore.

“Seraphina,” he replies warmly, despite her tone. He dives right in, there's no reason to skirt around the issue with her. “I’m calling to let you know I'll be taking all of next week off.”

There's a beat of silence before Picquery replies. “Why aren't you telling HR this?”

Percival smiles slightly, knowing she would be difficult. “Already emailed them. Just letting you know.”

Another beat of silence. “So I heard from my guidance counselor Queenie Goldstein on Friday afternoon that a student has been hurt at home and will not be back at school for a while. A nasty abuse case. His mother and her boyfriend were the abusers? Absolutely vile. And now, you are taking days off. You know I'll be asking when you come back, Percival. I'll leave you to it for now but I expect an explanation after the new year.”

Percival sighs. “I'm counting on it, Seraphina. Have a good holiday.”

“Send Credence Barebone my best,” Picquery says and hangs up.

One call down. Two more to go. He stubs out his cigarette as he dials.

He had been dreading returning the next call after the initial reach out in the waiting room but he can no longer put it off. He half hopes the call would go to voicemail but no such luck.

“Hullo, Percival,” a warm voice answers, slightly accented and somewhat bemused.

“Newt,” Percival replies, already feeling worn. “Have you given my— uh, proposal, I suppose, any thought yet?”

“Ah yes, that,” Newt says absentmindedly, as though only just remembering Percival had called two days ago with a strange request. “I have thought on it.”

“And…?”

“Well see, the thing is, I'm teaching classes on Thursdays and Fridays and I'm not sure if only going for half the week is really all that great of an idea. It doesn't seem like enough, you know, senior year and all. Maybe I can get Theseus—”

“No,” Percival interrupts. “Monday through Wednesday will suffice. He's very smart and self-reliant. I'm sure he would appreciate some days left on his own as well, after all he's been through. There's no need to bring Theseus into this.”

Newt sighs on the other end. “I'm sure Theseus could also cover areas where I don't have any expertise—”

“No, Newt.”

Another sigh. “He's forgiven you already, Percival. If that's what this is about. Ethiopia was so long ago. It's been nearly twenty years for goodness sake. We're all adults and this is for the best of your student. What's his name again?”

There's the familiar simmer of annoyance at talking to Newt and the old swell of regret at the mention of Newt’s brother swelling beneath Percival's breastbone and he's sorely tempted to just hang up but Newt’s question reminds him this isn't about him.

“His name is Credence.”

_This is about Credence._

“Right. Okay then. When do you need me to start?”

“I don't have a definite day for you yet. Maybe we can start in—”

“Wait,” Newt interrupts, sounding as though he's just woken up. “You sound like you haven't asked Credence. _Have_ you even asked Credence yet?”

The headache is back. Percival rubs a hand against his forehead and very nearly hangs up. “No, not yet,” he admits through gritted teeth. “I was going to ask him later today, but really Newt, it's not as if he has many options here.”

Newt sucks in a sharp breath. “Percival,” he says urgently, voice stern for the first time Percival has ever heard. “You cannot do that. I know you think you're doing what's best, and yes, this is the best option, but you _have to ask him_. You cannot decide for him. He might be a student but he's an adult and after his recent trauma, I should think he would appreciate being given a choice to control something for once in his life.”

Percival pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at the screen, wondering if he might've called the wrong number. This is the most perceptive he's ever heard Newt speak, a man who usually ignores people in favor of his research. Which also reminds Percival what a huge favor Newt would be doing him in agreeing to this.

“I am going to ask him,” Percival replies weakly, rubbing at his temple. “His sisters are visiting at the moment but I'll ask him as soon as they're done, Newt, I promise. And I was never going to _force_ him. He'll always have a choice. Albeit, there really aren't very many savory ones left to him.”

“Yes, I know,” Newt replies shortly. “In the interim, I'll prepare a course for him so _if_ Credence says yes, we can continue his studies when he's ready and still probably graduate on time.”

“Thank you, Newt. I really appreciate it. I am grateful you're willing to help.”

“Don't mention it. It sounds like a horrendous situation, I’m glad I can help. I suppose I'll see you soon then. Theseus says hello.” Newt hangs up before Percival can reply.

Percival sighs, tempted to light another cigarette. He wonders if he's making a huge mistake asking Newt fucking Scamander to homeschool Credence's final high school semester. But then again, there really is no better person to ask, given Newt’s stellar credentials and conveniently open schedule while he teaches as an adjunct professor at NYU. Not to mention Newt is rarely in the country, usually off on research expeditions in Africa and South America. No, Percival is lucky Newt is agreeing to help. He could trust no one more with Credence's future.

Speaking of Credence's future, Percival has one more call to make: the hardest of the three. He'd been a coward two days ago in the waiting room. He had called the office instead of the private number, hanging up when the assistant told him Atticus was in a client meeting.

It's Sunday now. Percival has no choice but to call the private number. He steels himself as he dials.

“Atticus Graves,” an old familiar voice greets.

“Uncle,” Percival replies. “How are you?”

There's a booming laugh down the line that has Percival stiffening as he holds tight to his phone. There are two ways this can go, and he's unsure which one he'd prefer: the derision of his life from his last remaining blood family and his uncle laughing in his face during his time of need, or actual understanding and empathy that Percival doesn't deserve after years of blocking himself off from them.

“I'm very well, lad,” Atticus replies once he gets over his surprise. “New number? Of course it is. How are _you_?”

“As well as can be, uncle, thanks,” Percival replies, trying not to think of better times. “How're Maria and the kids?”

“Good, good,” Atticus says jovially, seemingly unaware of the strain in Percival's voice. “Maria is good and the kids are going to be home from school later this week. We’re going to Aruba for their winter break. Thaddeus is graduating next year and Elizabeth the year after. But I'm sure you didn't call to hear me ramble about our vacation plans, lad.”

Percival sucks in a deep breath and steels himself. “Uncle, I called because I—” he pauses as the words stick in his throat. _Stop being so weak. This is for Credence._ Credence needs the best help Percival can provide and he will not let his own pride stand in the way.

“I need your help,” he finally says, knowing he sounds pathetic.

“What can I help you with, lad?”

“I need legal help.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No,” Percival says, the lump in his throats making his words sound thick. “I need legal help for my— student.”

Atticus hums down the line, but thankfully doesn't ask why Percival would go through such lengths to seek help for one of his students. His uncle must know Percival would not bend his pride after years of estrangement for just anyone but he doesn't pry. He simply asks for a brief overview of the issue and Percival explains as tersely and clinically as possible, each word still hurting despite trying his best to stay detached. By the time he finishes, Percival feels sick to his stomach all over again.

“Well,” Atticus sighs. “That is quite the situation. Look, lad, you know I don't like to predict outcomes of cases before we even step foot in court but going by what you're telling me about how you found the boy locked in the basement and his rapist attacking _you_ , I should say this will be cut and dry. We can likely lock this vile man and terrible woman away for a long time. We'll be asking for the maximum sentence of course. Send your testimonies and whatever information you think may be helpful to the office tomorrow. I'll personally take this one.”

Percival sighs in relief, everything going better than he had dared to hope for. He had thought maybe his uncle's prestigious firm would simply take the case and set him up with one of their junior lawyers but Atticus Gareth Graves taking the case when Percival knows he's on the brink of retirement is the best possible thing for Credence at the moment.

“Thank you, uncle,” he says, nearly overwhelmed with gratitude.

“No need to thank me, lad,” Atticus replies lightly. “That is a truly frightful situation you have on your hands and I wish your student a speedy recovery. We're going to do everything we can to get him the justice he deserves.

“In the meanwhile, Percival,” he adds, voice going gruff, “don't be a stranger again. I know the years after your parents died have been strained, to say the least, and I've always regretted not telling you that I don't share their views on how you choose to live your life. So what I really mean is that I miss you. Maria misses you. The kids miss their Uncle Perce. All I ask in helping you is that we get to see you again.”

“I—” Percival is at a loss for words. The emotional weight of his uncle’s words hit him like a ton of bricks and leaves him overwhelmed with gratitude and grief. His voice is rough and nearly cracked when he manages to pull himself together enough to reply, “thank you, uncle. Really. I appreciate all of this more than you know. And by the time everything is said and done, you'll wish you can be rid of me,” Percival says, laughing and feeling lighter than he has in years.

*

When the Goldsteins usher Modesty and Chastity into Credence's hospital room, he nearly has a panic attack at the sight of them. Despite missing his sisters and desperately wanting to see them, he somehow did not take into account the emotions that would come with the event.

Mr. Graves had stepped outside before his sisters arrived, promising to return with real food after he makes a few calls. That nasty hospital fare is unlikely to be doing Credence any good, he had declared, making Credence smile slightly as he felt a warmth infuse through his chest. The feeling quickly dissipated when Mr. Graves left and Credence pathetically almost called him back.

Mr. Graves hasn't left his bedside since Credence was rescued from the basement despite his own injuries, having spent the days and nights by Credence's side in uncomfortable chairs and only leaving for quick trips to the hospital cafeteria and bathroom breaks. Credence knows Miss Tina has been very cross with Mr. Graves for not taking better care of himself when she visits, but nothing she's said so far was able to make him leave. But Credence feels cold and bereft now that he's gone for the first time for as long as hours.

Credence knows he is being incredibly selfish by wanting him to stay, to keep asking for more, despite Mr. Graves's incredible magnanimity in caring this much already. Thankfully, he doesn't have much time to ponder that guilt before there's a knock on his door and his sisters are walking into his room.

Credence's sisters hover a little by the door, looking uncertain with Modesty gripping tight to Miss Tina’s hand. Miss Queenie however immediately steps up to Credence's bedside to help him sit up against his pile of pillows, adjusting and fluffing them for him.

“How ya doing, honey?” Miss Queenie asks, smiling brightly. “How are we feeling today?”

She's so bright and beautiful and empathetic, cheerful despite the bleakness of everything and Credence is so grateful to her and to Miss Tina for caring so much. To take so much time out of their own lives to visit him.

Miss Tina smiles warmly at him as she ushers his sisters closer to the bed and Credence manages to drudge up a smile from deep down somewhere to give her. A paltry offering, but it's all he has at the moment. After all, Miss Tina was one of his saviors who dragged him out of Hell. Credence thinks if he was ever capable of falling in love with a woman, it would probably be with Miss Tina, whom he owes his life.

“I’m o-okay, I think,” Credence replies quietly, wincing back a grimace as he struggles to sit all the way up, the lacerations striping his back pulling tightly at every movement.

Miss Queenie _tsks_ gently as she helps him up, her hands warm and soft on his shoulders and Credence is suddenly overwhelmed. His eyes are burning as he blinks back tears that threaten to spill, overcome by how much kindness he's experienced in the past several days, more kindness and warmth than he's ever known or deserved, especially while he's in such a disgusting state.

Credence barely manages to pull himself together when Chastity steps timidly forward to stand by his bedside. Her hand is small and cold in his when she take it, uncertain and nervous. He squeezes her gently and lets go when she starts to pull away. It's probably the most they've ever touched. Ma never allowed physical contact between them, saying touch invited the Devil’s thoughts, even with something as innocent as comfort and affection between siblings.

Pushing Ma’s teachings from his mind, Credence defiantly reaches out for Modesty, beckoning her over to his side and reaches out to grasp her hand when she obliges. His sisters stand stoically by his bed as Credence fights to keep his emotions under control, holding tight to Modesty. He only looks up slightly when he hears the door open again. It’s only Miss Tina and Miss Queenie on their way out.

“We’re going to have a walk around, Credence,” Miss Tina tells him, smiling encouragingly. “See if we can find some good coffee around here.”

He nods silently as they leave, still blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling as he thinks of something to say. Chastity beats him to it.

“I'm sorry, Credence,” Chastity says, sounding like she's fighting back tears too.

Credence doesn't know why everyone keeps apologizing to him, it's not anything he needs or deserves. He's the one who got caught up in the worst kind of trouble and it's no one’s fault but his own and he wishes the apologies would stop. He doesn't know what to do with them.

But Chastity’s apology is what tips them all over the edge and Credence's head jerks up. His eyes meet hers for a brief second and before he knows it, all three of them are crying as they stare at each other. He leans over the bedside and opens his arms as much as he can, wary of the IV lines and plaster cast and his sisters fall against him. He holds them for a brief precious moment as they sob against one another, each overwhelmed.

“I'm sorry,” Chastity repeats between gasping breaths and Credence tightens his arms around both his sisters.

She should not be the one apologizing. He's the one who's failing right now because he's all too aware of the consequences of this momentous disaster. He knows what it means for all of them now that Ma has been taken away. It means his sisters will be taken away too and he'll have no way to keep them.

So it is Credence who should be sorry, because he has failed them. He's failed to protect them as their big brother and he's failed to keep them together. Despite their lack of close relationship thanks to Ma, Credence still loves his sisters, wants the best for them. But that's not something he can provide and he'll have to let them go. He has no means to keep them and with no other family, his sisters will be placed in the foster system.

This will probably be the last time he sees them, and both Chastity and Modesty seem to know as they hold each other. It feels like a finality, a goodbye.

And Credence doesn't even know what will happen to himself. He has nowhere to go, no money to his name, and he's too old to go into the foster system like his sisters.

To survive, one must have money and in order to have money, one must have a job. There's nothing he's actually good at. Maybe he can turn tricks to make a living. That is what Grindelwald said was his only talent. But then again, who would pay Credence for something like that? He's so ugly and skinny and scarred, absolutely ruined beyond hope. He'll have to find a way to survive somehow. In the meanwhile, he forcefully pushes the dark thoughts away to focus again on his sisters, hoping they haven't noticed the turmoil brewing beneath his skin.

They've only just managed to compose themselves when Miss Queenie and Miss Tina return, arms full of coffee and soft drinks for them all. They try to look past the sorrow of the day and Credence is determined to spend what might be his last day with his sisters as happily as possible.

By the time Mr. Graves returns with bags full of food, all five of them are sat around Credence's bed playing a board game the nurses were kind enough to lend them from the children's ward. Chastity and Modesty are giggling with each other, having teamed up against Credence while Miss Queenie and Miss Tina watch on with amusement. Credence doesn't mind, purposefully moving one of his checkers in a way that will ensure his sisters’ victories and smiles as they gleefully take the win.

So absorbed is Credence with his sisters’ unfiltered joy, he had barely noticed Mr. Graves entering the room.  He startles as he feels a solid presence press against his side, only relaxing when he realizes it is Mr. Graves taking a seat on the edge of his bed. Bolstered by the joy currently filling the room, Credence bravely leans back against Mr. Graves, elated when the older man shifts slightly to better fit against him.

Despite The Event hovering like a shadowed demon in the forefront of his mind, this is the most content Credence has felt in a long time, surrounded by his sisters and the people who have saved him from Hell. Despite the aches and pain that remind him of the not distant at all past, he feels almost _happy_ and the feeling stays with him long after his sisters leave in the evening with Miss Queenie and Miss Tina.

Only Mr. Graves remains, still sitting flushed by Credence's side. Sometime during the afternoon, they've shifted until Mr. Graves is leaning back against the headboard with Credence tucked against him.

Credence is content with their comfortable silence, drained from the emotions of the day and he's nearly nodding off to sleep as he allows himself the courage to lean fully against Mr. Graves's shoulder. He’s nearly all the way asleep, nuzzling into Mr. Graves and letting the heady mixture of the soft smell of his musky cologne and hint of cigarette smoke lull him into dreams when Mr. Graves starts to speak.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves says, heaving a deep breath as though he's about to impart an important announcement. “Do you like dogs?”

The tone and the question disorients Credence and he sits up, suddenly awake. “I'm sorry,” he says. “What?” He's not sure why he's suddenly being asked about dogs and what answer is expected of him.

Mr. Graves sighs and looks as though he's gathering himself. If Credence thinks he knows any better, he would say Mr. Graves is nervous. But what could he possibly be nervous about with Credence? Is this where he tells Credence he is no longer coming to visit? He's going to leave and never look back again, having wasted enough time on this ridiculous orphan who's cost him far too much trouble already. But why would he segue into that with a question about dogs?

Credence's mind is reeling as he keeps his head ducked, unsure of what to say. He sneaks a glance at Mr. Graves who looks frustrated and Credence almost cringes away before a strong arm is wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him back.

“I'm sorry, Credence,” Mr. Graves sighs, leaving Credence even more perplexed. “I'm going about this all wrong, aren't I? _Fuck_.”

“M-Mr. Graves?” Credence asks, hating how his voice shakes a little.

“I just want you to have the best possible options. What I mean is—” Mr. Graves breaks off for a moment with a frustrated growl. “I'm no good at this. What I mean— I know it's been hell for a long time for you. You've never had much choice in the matter, and for once, I'd like for you to have a say in what happens to you. You'll always be able to say no, and you'll always have a choice if I can help it. Do you understand?”

Credence nods, still confused but no longer trusting his own voice.

“Good,” Mr. Graves mumbles, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I don't know if you might have other family or friends you can go to, but I know with the situation at hand with your— with Mary Lou and everything, you might no longer be able to stay at the church. I don't know if you would even _want_ to stay at the church.

“But anyways. So. I uh— it's kind of in the middle of this stupidly hipster neighborhood that I'm probably too old for, and there's not much fun in the area, just things like maybe a handful of restaurants and coffee shops and some parks. And there's a dog, he's big and sometimes a little rambunctious and excitable but he's harmless. His name is Hephaestion. It's not a huge place, it's kind of old and cluttered. There are too many books and book shelves. The hot water isn't so great sometimes. But the back garden is nice and I have a spare bedroom and well,” Mr. Graves pauses to turn fully to Credence. “You're more than welcome to stay with me, for as long as you like. Until you decide what to do. So, would you like to stay with me, Credence?”

Credence cannot believe his ears. He must be dreaming. Nothing this good could possibly happen to him. Mr. Graves has already saved him, more than once. Why would he want the extra burden of Credence's permanent presence in his home? Mr. Graves's _home_. Mr. Graves is asking Credence _to live with him_. What has Credence done to deserve such kindness, such goodness from someone like Mr. Graves?

How could Credence possibly take the offer? How could he bring himself to become even more of a burden? But what actual choice does Credence have, but to accept and impose on Mr. Graves once again? He has nowhere to go, and despite how unreal the offer sounds, he _wants_ it. More than he's ever wanted anything, save for wanting Mr. Graves.

Maybe he can stay for just a short while, until he can work to save enough money to leave Mr. Graves alone or until he goes away to college. Maybe he can repay Mr. Graves somehow. Maybe he can just stay until he's healed and he can think of other options then.

Credence takes a deep breath and asks because he has to be sure. “Do you mean it?”

Mr. Graves's eyes are soft when he says, “yes, I mean it.”

The tears are flowing before Credence realizes what's happening and he hurriedly wipes them away with his palm, the salt stinging his scabs a little. And then he's smiling and laughing as he cries, throwing himself at Mr. Graves who catches him with both arms and holds tight.

“Yes,” Credence mumbles beneath his sobs. “Thank you thank you _thank you_.”


	10. Chapter 10

Percival doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, he's so out of his depth. It's the first time in days he's gone home, after leaving Credence in Tina's care. Credence, who had looked at him with giant sorrowful eyes as he left as though he had thought Percival would never come back.

Percival hadn't been able to help himself. He had stepped back into the room and hugged Credence tight, promising it was only for a little while. He was only going to pick up his car and go home to tidy up the spare room. He would return to pick up Credence in the afternoon when he was due to be released from the hospital. What he was really saying was, _I'm coming back, I promise. I won't leave you_.

Standing in the middle of his spare room, trying to pack old books and knick knacks into boxes for storage, Percival wonders what he's doing. While he has no doubt offering his home to Credence is the right thing to do, he also feels slightly overwhelmed. He's not sure how to care for a traumatized teenager who's wary of affection and kindness.

He sighs and flops onto the floor, cleaning temporarily forgotten. He lets Hephaestion nuzzle his wet nose against his neck before laying across his arm as Percival stares up at the ceiling, wondering if he should paint the boring eggshell white walls. He should probably let Credence chose what color he wants.

And then there's the key. Choice. That's what Credence needs and that's what Percival needs to give him. It could start with something that simple.  

At the very least, he can give Credence a little bit of cheer though, much needed after everything that's happened. Percival isn't usually one for holidays, nor does he care to celebrate them, but he finds himself rushing to finish the cleaning so he has enough time to go to the shopping center, where he might've gone a little crazy in the holiday shops.

By the time Percival is done preparing his home for Credence, it is garish in its festivity. The fireplace mantle in the living room is festooned with pillar candles and pine garlands and holly. The cornices of the living room are strung with twinkling faerie lights that set the room in a soft glow.

He also manages to wrangle an enormous tree that nearly brushes against the ceiling into the space between the fireplace and the front windows. He doesn't have enough time to go through the boxes of ornaments and baubles to decorate the tree by the time he has to return to the hospital. He'll have to finish when Credence gets home.

And that is when Percival realizes of all the things he's forgotten when shopping, he had forgotten to get a few sets of clothing for Credence. Credence whose old clothes are tattered and old and Credence who had been pulled out of hell wearing barely anything at all.

Percival growls, frustrated with himself and realizes with the lack of time, he'll have to settle for pulling out a couple of his own old sweaters and sweatpants and hope that Credence won't mind wearing them until he can take him shopping.

Credence is being untethered by a nurse when Percival returns to the hospital. He still looks a little pale and his legs are slightly wobbly from being bedridden for days but the bruises are faded to pale greens and yellows now.

Credence's face brightens with a shy smile when he sees Percival. That simple little expression is enough to make Percival’s heart stutter in his chest and he has to remind himself to focus.

The nurse helps Credence into the clothes Percival brought behind the bed curtain and when he emerges, Percival can feel the beast inside his chest rear its ugly head again. There's a surge of protectiveness that feels nearly insane in its intensity rumbling inside of him when he sees his old overlarge sweatshirt hang off of Credence's slim shoulders.

Credence's cheeks are tinted pink as he stares resolutely at the space between Percival's neck and shoulder, shuffling slightly as though he's expecting Percival to make fun of how big the clothes look on him.

Percival pushes away the rising urge to pull Credence against him and _keep_ him there and offers a confident grin in reply to Credence's questioning look.

“That looks good on you,” Percival says, tone teasing but meaning every word.

“Thanks,” Credence mumbles, his blush deepening and Percival is so, so charmed. “You look nice like this,” he says, tugging lightly at Percival’s t-shirt with a slightly shaking hand. “I like it. I mean— I— I like the suits too but this is— different, and— ah, nevermind,” he finishes quietly, not quite looking at Percival and endearingly shy.

The flush on Credence's cheeks is bright red when Percival chuckles. He ducks his head slightly as Percival gives in to the overwhelming urge to touch and pulls Credence against his chest, careful of his still healing ribs and back. Credence feels both frail and unbreakable in his arms and Percival is overwhelmed with gratitude that he hadn't been too late and anything is possible still; he hasn't lost Credence.

“Let's go home,” he murmurs into Credence's hair, holding tighter for a brief moment when Credence nods.

Credence's expression as he steps through the threshold for the first time is nothing short of awe. He eagerly drinks in the sight of the living room bedecked in lights and holiday decorations as he toes off his shoes at the entryway, neck craning to see further into the kitchen at the back.

The only thing that interrupts his staring is Hephaestion who bounds up to them, eager to meet the new stranger. Credence's awestruck expression is interrupted by a wide grin as he gingerly sinks to his knees on the living room rug to push his fingers eagerly through the dog’s long fur.

“Hello,” he murmurs, enchanted when Hephaestion rolls over to present his belly for rubbing. “You must be Hephaestion.”

Percival thinks he could watch Credence forever when he's like this, comfortable and relaxed, free of the tension that usually curls him tight into a small hunched version of himself. He leaves him to explore for a bit, heading into the kitchen to fix them both a warm drink and realizes of course, he's forgotten to buy something else— food.

Percival is not usually one to cook. It's pointless when he lives by himself when it's much more convenient to simply order food or eat premade frozen meals but now that he has Credence with him, he thinks he should probably try to cook more, be healthier. At the very least, he should make sure Credence always has enough to eat, whenever he wants to eat. That means he'll have to go shopping again sooner rather than later.

For now, Percival heads back to the living room with two cups of tea in hand, only to stop in the doorway, entranced by the sight of Credence sitting on the rug beneath the tree, Hephaestion’s head in his lap as he examines a box of tree ornaments. His boy’s face is alight with an expression of mild wonderment as he strokes slim fingers against the rounded curve of the baubles as though he's never seen something so beautiful before, careful and tentative. His other plastered hand is buried in Hephaestion’s scruff, petting him with gentle strokes as the big dog sighs contentedly and nuzzles against Credence's belly.

Percival thinks he might want to come home to something like this every day.

He clears his throat softly, smiling when Credence looks up, slightly alarmed as though he's been caught doing something he believes he shouldn't be doing. Percival takes a seat next to him, hands him a cup and pulls another box of ornaments towards them.

“I’m not usually one for this holiday stuff,” Percival says, waving a hand idly at the still-undecorated tree and ridiculous amount of string lights glowing against his walls. “So. I could really use a hand in finishing up the tree. It might look less horrible if you could help me decorate it.”

Credence smiles down at the box of ornaments in his lap, fingers still buried in the dog’s fur. “I'd love to,” he replies, turning a glass ball in his other hand, rapt as he watches the gold flecks in the glass glitter in the light.

“After we finish the tree, I'll order a pizza for dinner and we can just relax for the rest of the day, how does that sound?” Percival asks. “We can go get groceries and new clothes for you tomorrow.” He holds up a hand when Credence starts to protest, most likely at the mention of getting him a new wardrobe.

“Please, Credence,” Percival says, pulling him close. “You need new clothes. Let me do this for you. Consider it a Christmas present.”

Credence's hand moves from the box of ornaments to tug slightly at his overlarge sweatshirt, tracing the cracked and faded Princeton logo emblazoned across the front. “But this is fine,” he mumbles. “This is already much more than I could've hoped for, Mr. Graves. I'm already very thankful for all you've done for me. I don't need much more. It's sinful to be greedy and we never celebrated Christmas with presents anyways.”

Percival catches his hand and twines his fingers with Credence's, stroking his thumb across the drying scabs on his palm. He's sorely tempted to raise Credence's hand up and press a kiss against the healing skin on the back, but that would be highly inappropriate so he settles for simply holding him.

“Don't be silly,” Percival replies, gently chiding. “That's not your Christmas present. That's simply something you need. That's your Christmas present for _me_ , letting me do this for you.” He hopes Credence won't argue again about how much he's done already.

To Percival's surprise, Credence nods after a moment, looking up at him with wide eyes and an expression that makes Percival's heart stutter in his chest.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves.”

And Percival knows with sudden crystal clarity that he will keep doing whatever he can to have Credence always look at him like that.

He clears his throat and rises to his feet, trying not to feel self-consciously old when his knees creak and pop. He offers his hand to Credence and tugs him up gently.

“I think you should call me Percival if we're going to live together, Credence,” Percival says mildly.

Credence visibly startles but unfurls his body a little, relaxing slightly when he darts a quick glance up to Percival’s face.

“I— I'll try.”

That's enough for now.

They spend the afternoon placing all the baubles Percival bought onto the tree. Despite the enormity of the fir, he's still somehow managed to buy too many ornaments and by the time they're done, there's barely any hint of the original green visible. The tree looks ridiculous and mismatched and quite ugly.

But Credence is smiling and occasionally laughing when Percival cracks lame jokes and he is so _beautiful_ in his joy that Percival’s heart aches where it stutters in his chest.

*

Everything is overwhelming, and Credence cannot sleep.

Being unable to sleep by itself is nothing unusual, he didn't get much sleep back at the church, but he'd had deep dreamless sleep at the hospital— good sleep despite everything, and not because of the drugs either.

No, it was all Mr. Graves, who had tucked himself next to Credence on the hospital bed and held him until they both fell asleep every night.

Now all alone, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling in the most comfortable bed he's ever laid in, Credence cannot sleep. The blankets are so warm and soft against his skin, he can barely feel the healing welts on his back even when he's laying on his back.

Credence feels ungrateful, a wretch who cannot appreciate luxuries when they're handed to him, unappreciative of his new circumstances.

But every time he closes his eyes for too long, the oppressing dark of the dank basement returns and he can feel the damp concrete beneath his hands, the rough grit of it scraping his skin raw, the dirt trapping and stinging beneath his torn fingernails. He can feel the dread and fear anew every time that basement door opens, the rabbit beat of his heart, the acrid taste of blood and vomit in his mouth, the rage that fills his chest until he can't breathe past the weight of it. He can feel fingers clutching at him, a harsh grip in his hair and a low chuckle in his ear, mean and nasty and mirthless, and—

Credence turns over again, trying to keep as quiet as possible, knowing his wall connects to Mr. Graves's room and sound travels. He lays there for what feels like hours staring at the wall before sitting up in bed, unable to bear the feeling of suffocating under the thick blankets any longer.

He pads softly out into the kitchen, startling when he hears a shuffle and rapid clicking along the hardwood floors, turning only to find Hephaestion trotting up to him. He sighs softly in relief, taking deep breaths to let his heart come down from its rapid gallop, silently berating himself for his reaction. He shouldn't be so jumpy at everything anymore, what was he expecting anyways, he's safe now.

 _Safe_ , Credence reminds himself. He thinks if he repeats the mantra enough, he'll believe it soon and not look over his shoulder at every shadow and sound.

Credence is afraid to turn on the lights, thinking it might be too bright and disruptive this late at night. The string lights hanging on the living room walls cast enough of a glow to see by so he settles for that, basks in the soft warmth and gentle shadows. He thinks about boiling a kettle of water and maybe making some of that tea Mr. Graves made for him earlier that afternoon but Credence suspects that might make a bit of noise and the last thing he wants to do is wake Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves, who had asked Credence to call him Percival.

The name feels heavy on his tongue, weighted and Credence is still unable to wrap his mind around the concept of calling Mr. Graves that. But he also likes the name. It's strong and fitting for someone like Mr. Graves, an old name, Arthurian and powerful.

One day, Credence will have the courage to call Mr. Graves Percival because he so selfishly wants every part of him. He wants to be close. He wants to rise to be good enough for him. He wants and he wants.

He wants everything from the person to his warmth to his love to his name, feeling silly and childish for imagining his own name as Credence Graves, free forever from the clutches of Mary Lou and his past. And once the idea plants itself in his head, he's unable to shake it off. It takes root, deep and gripping, intertwining with the rest of his selfish wants.

The wants become a deep ache that wraps tight around every fiber of his being until Credence almost believes he can someday have all of it, especially when Mr. Graves— Percival gives to him so freely. And Credence has to remind himself not to get ahead of what he's been offered, he's already taken so much. He has no right to want more than what he's been offered.

Credence has to remember his place in the world. He's damaged and unwanted, with the selfish audacity to think so far ahead of himself once he's been offered a small hint of kindness. He's a glutton, full of greed and envy and sin.

That's how Mr. Graves— Percival finds Credence, sat at the kitchen table stewing in his own whiplash warring maudlin and musing thoughts. It's three in the morning and Hephaestion’s head is propped on Credence's lap, the big dog protective and warm, a reassuring weight.

“Credence?” Percival asks, voice gritty and sleep rough, the deep bass tone sending a ripple down Credence's spine that he has to suppress before it becomes a full shudder.

Credence has to quickly duck his head when he realizes Percival is only wearing flannel sleep pants, slung low on his hips. His mouth runs dry when his eyes involuntarily travel up the lines of Percival’s broad chest and strong arms and then back down again to the v-cut of his obliques and even further following the trail of his navel to the thin sleep pants that do nothing to hide the outline of his—

Credence forces himself to tear his eyes away, knowing his face is burning warm and red. _Sinful_ , he reminds himself.

“I'm sorry, did I wake you?” Credence asks, worrying that he might've made too much noise. He moves to stand up, to go back to his room. He freezes when a warm hand pushes gently on his shoulder, brushing soft fingers along his arm and the curve of his neck, stilling his rise from his chair. That's all it takes to make Credence's breath to catch in his throat, a gentle touch.

Hephaestion whines a little, miffed at the disturbance of his pillow and Credence strokes his ear to calm him.

“No, you're fine,” Percival replies reassuringly as he shuffles to the sink to fill up the kettle. “I could go for some tea though, how about you?”

Credence nods mutely, still not looking up.

It becomes an immensely difficult task for Credence to not stare at the muscles shifting beneath the skin of Percival’s back as he goes through the motions of making tea. The shift of the dim lighting and warm shadows emphasize the shapes and planes of his body, the flickering cast of blue stove fire adding a new dimension to Percival’s skin, turning him into something almost ethereal.

Credence is certain his voice sounds inordinately croaky when he mumbles his “thanks” when a hot mug is set down in front of him.

“Wanna talk about it?” Percival asks as he takes a seat across from Credence with his own cup.

Credence thinks for a moment, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as he thinks. He thinks he might've seen Percival’s gaze flicker to his mouth for a split second but he cannot be certain. The sight of Percival’s bare chest sitting across from him is more than a little distracting.

“No,” Credence finally replies, honest. “Not really.”

Percival nods, the look in his eyes far too kind. “Okay,” he says simply and Credence is reminded of that second day in his office when he was late for class after a lashing.

He looks down at his hands now at both the plaster cast and his red slashed skin as he wraps them around his mug, the heat of the ceramic soothing against his healing scabs. The herbal smell of the tea calms him as he raises the cup, his eyes slipping shut as he inhales deep. He feels more settled when he opens his eyes again to find Percival staring back. His eyes are a warm dark brown in the low light.

Credence swallows hard, forcing himself to loosen the white-knuckle grip on his tea.

“When I find myself unable to sleep,” Percival begins, voice low and intimately soft, “nothing works better than chamomile tea and a good book. The book takes your mind away from whatever it is your mind is fixating on, takes it to another place where you can spend a little bit of time until you're ready to come back to reality. Sometimes, we all need a little distraction. Or, it could just bore you enough to have you fall asleep in the middle of a page. That works just as well. Maybe try one of your American history textbooks.”

That startles a chuckle from Credence. Hephaestion huffs an exasperated sigh from his lap where he's being jostled before extracting himself and trotting away. Credence misses the warmth immediately.

“He's gone back to bed,” Percival says, nodding in Hephaestion’s direction. “We should too. It's late.”

“I'm sorry,” Credence says. “You have work tomorrow and I've kept you up. I have school too but I don't think I'm quite ready to go back yet.”

Percival makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I took the week off,” he says, reaching out to take one of Credence's hands. “As for you,” Percival’s eyes are intense beneath his dark brows but there's also a hint of uncertainty in them as he leans slightly across the table towards Credence, “there's an option.”

The thumb stroking along the line of Credence's wrist coupled with the look Percival is giving him has Credence feeling feverish with the heat that flushes through his body.

“What kind of option?” he asks, mouth dry and slightly confused. Everything is so perfect already, there is nothing else Credence could've hoped for.

“I have an old friend,” Percival begins, “who teaches at NYU. I took the liberty of asking him if he would tutor you through the remainder of your senior year and he agreed. I had assumed that you wouldn't be too keen to return to school so I wanted you to have the option of not going back at all. We can arrange with your teachers to have your schoolwork sent home and you'll still be able to finish all of it and get your degree. You can decide then if you would like to walk for your graduation ceremony or go to prom or any of the senior stuff.

“Or if you would rather, you can decide to go back to school after winter break. Whatever you decide, Credence, I just wanted you to have an alternative in case school is too much. I know how kids at school could be, and I know there's a lot going on right now. Anyone would be overwhelmed. I also know I might've gone ahead of myself by arranging this before asking what you want but—”

“Yes!” Credence interrupts, barely feeling bad for cutting off Percival’s rambling. “I mean, thank you for doing this, but yes.”

Percival looks relieved. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Good. We can start whenever you're ready. His name is Newt Scamander. I've known him for years and I trust him implicitly with your education.”

“I appreciate this,” Credence murmurs, overwhelmed again but in a new way. An amazing way. “I wasn't sure how I was ever going back to school. I didn't want to. So thank you, for doing this for me.”

Percival tugs Credence up from the table by his hand. He's standing so close Credence can feel the warmth radiating from his body and he wants more than anything to lean in, to chase that heat but he holds himself still, barely daring to breathe.

“If it's in my power to help you with anything at all,” Percival says, “I'll do it. You're very special, Credence. Especially to me.”

Credence doesn't know what to say in response to that. He doesn't feel much like anything at all, much less _special._ He chews on his tongue and doesn't say anything, not quite able to bring himself to look at Percival either.

The kiss on his cheek comes as a surprise, a soft warm pressure that leaves before Credence realizes what's happening. And then Percival moving away and nudging him gently towards the direction of the guest room.

“Try to get some sleep, my boy,” Percival says. “Tomorrow is a new day and all that shit.”

Credence falls into restless sleep in his new bed, hand pressed against the wall separating him from Percival with the kiss still burning on his cheek.


	11. Chapter 11

Percival has never been so glad to have time off in his life. He'd been expecting to be bored out of his mind but the current company makes all the difference.

On his first day off, Percival wakes to the smell of frying eggs and fresh coffee. A quick glance at his phone tells him it's just after eight and that for the first time in a long time, he failed to wake at five for his morning run. The twinge in his still-healing ribs reminds him of what a bad idea that would've been as Percival rolls over to contemplate the smell.

It takes him several groggy moments to remember Credence is in his home, but what is that boy doing up so early when he should still be resting and recovering?

He pulls on a shirt and stumbles into the kitchen to find Credence standing at the stove scrambling eggs as he chats quietly with Hephaestion while the dog waits patiently next to him for scraps.

“Does your dad like eggs, Hef? He has to, right, since they're the only things in his fridge? But what if he doesn't like them scrambled? They probably taste horrible. There isn’t even any milk to add to them. I probably overstepped though, using the kitchen without permission and assuming I can just do this. I probably should've asked first. I'm so stupid—”

“I love scrambled eggs,” Percival interrupts softly. He hates scrambled eggs, but damned if he would tell Credence that.

Credence jumps slightly at the sound of his voice. “I— okay, great,” he stammers, hurriedly opening cabinets in search of plates. “I'm sorry, I woke you up, didn't I? I'm always making so much noise. It’s the stupid cast. It’s hard to use that hand so I’m extra clumsy. I'm sorry.”

“There's nothing to apologize for,” Percival replies, reaching above Credence for the plates. “It was nice to wake up to the smell of breakfast. This is waking up late for me anyways.”

“I’m sorry anyways,” Credence mumbles, divvying up the eggs with trembling hands.

Percival gently takes the plates from him and transfers them to the kitchen table before taking Credence in his arms. He holds Credence close but his grip is loose so Credence can break free should he need, but to Percival's surprise, it is Credence who tightens his grip. He can feel his fisted grip at the back of his shirt, curling against the fabric, a tense pressure right before Percival realizes Credence is shaking. Credence's breaths are coming in deliberate stutters, increasingly desperate attempts at control that are failing him.

“Hey now,” Percival murmurs, struggling to keep his voice calm as his mind begins to race in sudden sharp panic. “What's wrong?”

Credence breathes a gusty sigh and doesn't say anything for a long while but his shaking steadily tapers off. He releases his grip on Percival and steps away slightly, keeping his head ducked and not meeting Percival's eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Credence repeats, voice sounding choked. “I just— can't do anything properly.”

Percival frowns. “You're doing just fine, Credence. Not that I would ever expect you to make breakfast for me. I would never expect anything of you that you don't want to do, please remember that.”

Credence nods jerkily, still not looking up. “I know. But I just— have to. I have to do this. At least until I can remember I don't need to.”

And it clicks with instantaneous clarity. Credence is still forcing himself through tasks and habits Mary Lou had beaten into him. The self doubt and self flagellation and the demeaning chores, all instilled in Credence by that horrible woman. There's nothing Percival can do about it but to let his boy work through those demons himself, and simply be there if Credence needs him.

Percival nods in understanding. He leads Credence gently to the table and begins to dig into his plate of eggs, Credence soon following his example.

The eggs are in dire need of seasoning and are lumpy and overcooked but Percival finishes his plate. It's the best damn plate of scrambled eggs he's ever had simply because Credence made them for him.

Credence starts making breakfast every day. Percival stops reminding him that he doesn't need to do that and simply eats whatever Credence makes. It seems to calm him and if it brings Credence any peace, Percival will eat every fucking plate of scrambled eggs his boy makes.

They spend the week at home with the exceptions of short trips out for food, doctor’s visits, and a trip to get new clothes for Credence.

In public, Credence shrinks tight into himself, burying his face in the new scarf Percival bought him and Percival knows what a big toll it takes on Credence to go out at all, especially when they have to wade through hordes of holiday shoppers. Percival had suggested Credence to stay at home while Percival went out shopping but his boy is brave, insisting on accompanying him.

“I have to leave the house sometime,” Credence says stubbornly. “I'll be okay.”

Percival tries to keep their trips short, stocking up on groceries so they can hole up at home until after the holidays and they can just be alone with each other curled up by the fire, tangled close.

At home, Credence likes to wear the old clothes Percival gave him despite his newly acquired wardrobe. The possessive beast that lives inside of Percival enjoys the sight of his boy wearing his overlarge sweaters that hang off his shoulders and fall to mid-thigh far too much to insist on Credence wearing his new clothes.

Percival isn't sure when the shift happened from his desire to help Credence out of his horrible circumstances changed into an overwhelming need to give him everything he's never had. It's not a feeling Percival can even explain to himself, but it's there seated deep in his ribcage, gnawing at him like a feral creature, unsated until it sees Credence smiling.

The smiles are slow in coming but Percival is not one to easily give up. Which is how Percival finds himself celebrating the holidays for the first time in five years.

It's the first time Percival has been bothered to celebrate Christmas since his parents died. Back then, he hasn't had much of a choice when his parents demanded his presence at their ridiculously extravagant holiday parties where they pushed wealthy single woman after wealthy single woman on him.

After his parents were gone, Percival had been relieved he would never have to attend another Upper East Side function ever again. He had spent most of the subsequent years ignoring holidays and parties, declining politely when his colleagues and friends invited him to their events until the invitations eventually stopped altogether.  

It's Christmas Eve and Percival is staring at the trays of food on his kitchen counter, wondering what he's gotten himself into.

Tina had somehow managed to invite herself and Queenie over under the guise of checking up on Credence and Credence in his joy at seeing them, had invited them to stay for dinner. Newt had called checking up on Percival and asking after his future student and somehow invited himself over as well. And then there was Jacob, the owner of the diner cafe Percival frequents who had apparently heard about what happened and wanted to drop off some sweets for Credence and ended up staying too.

So now there are people laughing in his living room and there's something that feels far too much like holiday cheer filling the place up while Percival hides in the kitchen fiddling with the food his unexpected guests brought.

He had been planning for a quiet night with Credence, much like the ones they've been having for the entire week he's been living with Percival. Maybe they could've gone for a stroll, a drive, or just sit by the fire, just the two of them. But now he has to deal with guests who are taking up Credence's attention.

That's how Credence finds him, arranging and rearranging the crudités platter and glaring at the eggnog.

“I'm sorry,” Credence says, coming up next to him.

Percival startles. “Whatever for, my boy?”

Credence chews on his bottom lip until it's bright red, a habit Percival should really dissuade him against, but the flushed swollen result is far too pretty for him to want Credence to stop.

“I think I've overstepped myself by telling Miss Tina and Miss Queenie to stay.”

Percival laughs, pulling Credence against him and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He notices that these small kisses make Credence blush beautifully, and despite knowing he really stop, Percival can't help himself every time Credence stands close.

“As if Tina and Queenie would've actually left peacefully,” Percival says.

“I still should've asked,” Credence mumbles, frowning a little.

“Hey now,” Percival chides softly. He gently tips Credence's face up to meet his eyes. “This is your home now too, Credence. You can invite whomever you like over. You can do whatever you like.”

Credence is staring earnestly up at him, dark eyes wide and red lips slightly parted. Most of his bruises have faded and the stitches on his forehead were taken out a couple of days ago, leaving only a thin red line near his hairline. Credence's previous starved gauntness has filled out slightly under Percival’s care and good food. The choppy haircut he once sported is starting to grow out a little, the ends of his dark hair curling against his cheeks and neck. He's wearing one of his new sweaters, a dark forest green that contrasts beautifully with his pale skin.

 _He's stunning_ , Percival thinks, not for the first time. _And so very strong to survive so much and come out still willing to fight._

Percival barely realizes he's stroking his thumb along the crest of Credence's cheek as they stare at each other until someone clears their throat at the kitchen entryway. Percival drops his hand as though burned and he's unable to do anything about the disappointed look that crosses Credence's face briefly before he lowers his head again.

“Awww, don't mind me, you two,” Queenie says as she sidles up next to them to take one of the platters of food and disappears back out with a bright smile.

Credence's face is bright red and he's still refusing to look at Percival. He tilts his head towards the door and mumbles, “we should go back out and join them,” before he all but runs away with the bowl of eggnog.

Percival sighs and grabs a bottle of wine, uncorking it viciously and already pouring himself a glass on his way out of the kitchen. He finds his guests sitting on the rug beneath the tree, playing what seems to be a very enthusiastic and violent game of Scrabble. He lowers himself into the spot in between Credence and Jacob, wincing at the creak of his knees.

“I have couches for a reason,” Percival says, unconsciously leaning closer to Credence who gives him a small shy smile and slides the letter tile rack between them.

Tina shrugs. “It's nicer by the fire. Game’s full up though, you'll either have to join Credence or wait for the next round.”

Percival peers over to look at the board and the score tally. “It doesn't look like Credence needs my help to trounce all of your sorry asses. But I'll join him for moral support.”

The small smile Credence gives him is enough to warm Percival to the core.

He supposes it isn't so bad, having friends— he supposes he can call them that, begrudgingly— over for the holidays. At the very least, Credence is smiling and he seems to be getting along very well with his new tutor.

At the end of the night as the guests are getting ready to leave, Queenie finds Percival alone in the kitchen packaging leftovers.

“You love him,” Queenie says without preamble, always the intuitive one.

Percival doesn't insult her by playing stupid and asking who she means. “Of course I do. Have you met him? How can anyone _not_? But I— shouldn’t,” he replies, frowning. Not a denial. He wouldn't insult Credence like that either.

“Why’s that?”

Percival laughs, bitter and tired. “Look at me, Queenie. I'm old enough to be his dad. It's not appropriate. And look at all he's been through. He doesn't need that kind of pressure from me, of all people. I'm in a position of influence and power over him. I would only be taking advantage of him. He deserves better than me.”

Queenie sighs, exasperated. “Who cares about appropriateness, so long as you're both happy? You're a good person, Percival. This is the happiest Credence has ever been despite everything, I can tell, and it's all because of you. You deserve happiness too. Don't forget that.”

 _Despite everything_ , Percival reminds himself. There should never have been a “ _despite everything._ ” Credence doesn't deserve any of what happened to him and he certainly doesn't deserve his new guardian figure throwing himself at him. What he needs is to heal and for Percival to make sure that happens.

“He deserves the best,” Percival protests, feeling belligerent but not wanting to say any of what he's thinking.

“Yes, of course,” Queenie replies gently. “But he gets to decide what that is. You forget he's an adult, and he's been through more trials and pain most adults far older haven't. You underestimate him.”

Percival sighs, _really_ not wanting to have this conversation. There's not nearly enough alcohol in him to want to approach the subject. He deflects, hoping Queenie will get the hint.

“Please don't tell Tina. She's very protective and she would kill me if she even has an inkling of anything.”

Queenie laughs, pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. “Don't you worry, hun. It'll be our little secret, not that it's any of her business anyways. But think about it. Don't break our poor boy's heart by making him wait forever because of some silly archaic notion of chilvary.”

*

Credence can feel the night going steadily downhill after the Scrabble game. He can feel the pressure in his chest growing steadily throughout the evening until it roils and boils into the oppressive black weight he's always known. It takes all of his strength to repress it, to keep it from breaking him, even as he's surrounded by Percival and his new friends, people who were there for him during his darkest times.

But even surrounded by warmth and laughter, Credence feels alone and isolated. He feels cold and numb at his fingertips. He barely notices Hephaestion whining softly and nuzzling at his shoulder. There's a stone weight in his throat that gets heavier by the second and a fuzziness that creeps into the edges of his vision.

He had been doing so well all week but it's happening again, this darkness coming out of nowhere that takes over him and turns him into a monstrous mess.

It bursts from him minutes after Percival goes into the kitchen to pack leftovers for their guests. It spews like vomit, oily and heavy from every pore and Credence barely has time to look over at Miss Tina and whisper, “I'm sorry,” before it overwhelms him and he's reduced to tears and shakes.

Credence’s vision tunnels and fades into grey nothingness and there’s a static that roars over the others’ voices but he can hear the hiss of Grindelwald’s voice over the rush in his ear. It’s a nasty buzz that reminds him of how useless, disgusting, stupid he is. He’s making a spectacle of himself, he should be ashamed.

And then it's Ma’s turn, her voice high and shrill reminding him that he's nothing more than an abomination. He's a wicked sinful creature, irredeemable, unworthy of kindness. Soon, he'll be in hell where he belongs. There is no God to save him, no God kind enough to forgive his wretchedness.

He feels like he's drowning. He can't breathe.

The force of his own uselessness and stupidity overwhelms him, drags at him like dark malicious tentacles until he wishes he can just fly apart and be done with it all. There's nothing good or worthy in him to save. Everyone wasted their time and effort and it's _all his fault_.

He can't breathe.

Credence barely notices strong arms navigating him firmly down the hall to his room. There’s an accented voice in his ear looping in a continuous litany of soothing nothingness, “You’re alright. We have you. You’re safe now. You’re alright.” A soft monotone of meaningless gibberish but a calming sound nonetheless.

He follows the voice back to find himself lying on his own bed. The covers are pulled up to his chin and despite the warmth of the blankets, he's still shaking uncontrollably. There are tracks of tears drying on his cheeks and the heavy clog in his throat is mostly gone but he still has a hard time swallowing so his breaths come in stuttering hiccoughs.

Mr. “please call me Newt” Scamander is sitting next to Credence on the edge of his bed muttering the comforting nonsense that pulled him out of his own mind.

“Percival’s coming,” he's saying just as Percival bursts through the door.

Credence makes a keening sound in his throat, automatically reaching for Percival who shoves his way into the room to take his place next to him on the bed.

Credence feels shamefully needy as he clutches at him, trying to pull him closer so he can bury his face against his chest and hide forever. He inhales the scent of Percival's familiar cologne, notes of cedar and spice and a hint of bergamot, breathing deep to let the smell soothe him as he struggles for steady breaths. He can still barely breathe past the weight in his throat so he's gasping like a fish out of water but he concentrates on the rumble in Percival's chest as he talks quietly to the others.

The next thing he hears is the door shutting softly and blissful silence and all that's left is Percival.

The fingers carding through his hair are a soothing focus point. They're dragging gently along his scalp and skimming the length of his neck in even rhythmic strokes. The touch settles him, grounds him and keeps him from spiraling into another episode. It reminds him that Percival is here Percival is here _Percival is here_.

When Credence finds his voice again, swallowing past the boulder lodged in his windpipe, he feels it scraping against his raw throat like sandpaper and sounding twice as rough.

“I’m sorry,” Credence croaks. It’s all he knows how to say anymore. He's sure Percival is sick and tired of his paltry useless apologies but it's all he has left to offer. “I'm sorry,” he repeats.

“Shhhh,” Percival murmurs, sounding choked. He pulls him closer until their limbs are tangled together on the bed with Credence's cast tucked awkwardly between their chests but neither of them care enough to move. “Everything is fine. I'm here. I'm not leaving.”

Percival's hand is stroking from the crown of Credence's head down the length of his spine, taking extra care to gentle his touch along the row of scabbed lacerations along his back. The rhythmic strokes are soothing and Credence narrows his focus on the touches until his whole world is Percival and he can breathe properly again.

The choking animal fear gradually recedes and fades into the peripherals of his mind. He can unclench his fingers where they're clawed against Percival's chest and finally, finally Credence relaxes.

Credence wakes slowly, feeling very warm and almost content. He feels _safe_.  

Credence's consciousness catches up to him first noting the arm wrapped around his torso, then the chest pressed against his, and slowly upwards until he's blinking up at Percival. Percival, who is already awake but still holding Credence tightly, protective and close.

Percival smiles when he sees him wake, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he tilts forward to press a kiss against Credence's forehead and another on his cheek.

Credence can feel the heat rising on his face as his heart thunders in his chest. His breath feels strangled again, but it's so very different from his panic attack the night before. This is a wonderful feeling, a joyous loss of breath because he's so filled with gladness thanks to Percival that there's no room left in him for anything, not even air.

“How do you feel?” Percival asks. His eyes are nearly amber in the morning light and Credence jealously wants to keep that warm gaze on him always.

“Better,” he replies honestly, hand still curled against Percival's chest. He feels good. Warm. Comfortable.

“Good,” Percival murmurs, his hand moving from the dip of Credence's waist up along his spin to cradle the back of his neck. His thumb is stroking against the line of his jaw and Credence shivers at the sensation, pressing closer and it still doesn't feel like enough.

Credence wants so very badly to lean forward and press his lips against Percival's, but that would be overstepping every boundary. It would be imposing and he would be greedy yet again, taking what is not offered to him. He can't do that to Percival, not when Percival doesn't want him that way.

He reluctantly pulls away, probably misreading the look of disappointment in Percival's eyes, mumbling, “it's already ten. I'll get started on breakfast,” and nearly runs out of the room. He doesn't hear Percival's frustrated sigh.

The week leading up to the new year passes the same as the week before. They spend long hours reading by the fire wrapped in blankets and curled around each other.

For once in his life, Credence doesn't feel as though everything hurts, not when he's tucked against the back of the couch with Percival bracketing him against the cushions. They're not even doing anything but laying there as Percival rakes gentle fingers through his hair, but Credence is so _happy_ and _content_ and _warm_.

He can think of nothing else he would rather do as he nuzzles against the hand stroking along his jaw. He shivers against the gentle touches as he stares up at Percival and pretends he sees mirroring love and adoration in that beloved face.

When they're curled up together in their warm pretend cocoon, Credence can pretend they're in their own world. They don't have to worry about anyone else. They're the only occupants of this perfect fantasy bubble, where Credence is happy and free of worry. A place where he can pretend he'll ever be enough for Percival Graves, if only for a few moments.

He'll be stronger in the new year, Credence promises himself. He'll learn to be strong. He'll learn to be independent. He'll learn to ignore the demon whispers of worthlessness in his head. He'll learn to overcome. He'll learn to be enough for Percival, even if Percival will never love him the way Credence loves Percival. He'll learn to be brave.

The year is ending in _ten…._

Credence giggles as he takes another sip from his mug. Percival had been scandalized when he had gotten ceramic mugs from the kitchen for their champagne but Credence didn't know where the appropriate glasses were so he had to make do. The bubbly fizzes pleasantly in his throat as it fizzes in his brain, distorting his thoughts slightly but it's a pleasant haze, a buzzing warmth. He chases it with another sip.

_Nine…._

He thinks Percival might take his champagne away soon. He's had too much, apparently. But he feels so _good_ and there's liquid bravery in him and he's promised himself he will be brave in the new year. It would be good to have a head start and a little help.

_Eight…._

Unnamed anticipation is building like a bubble in Credence's chest. A new year is a new start, right? He can put the horrible things that's happened behind him and move on. Percival is there with him. Amazing, kind, handsome, beloved Percival.

_Seven…._

Percival is staring at him as he laughs at some stupid joke the New Year's show host made. Credence feels warm from head to toe from the look Percival gives him and he wishes fervently that Percival could always look at him this way. Like he's something magical, amazing, worthy of attention. Like he's beautiful. It's the champagne talking.

_Six…._

Credence takes another gulp, relishing in the burn as the alcohol slides down his throat. He reaches for a truffle from the box on the coffee table and lets the sweetness of the confection mellow the tartness of the champagne. He lolls his head against the back of the couch to meet Percival's eyes as he licks his lips to get every trace of the chocolate. Normally, Credence is not so brave to look directly at Percival and hold his gaze for so long but he feels full of joy and bravery in this moment.

_Five…._

He's so content, happy. They went out to dinner earlier that day, a lovely neighborhood place Percival was so eager to show Credence. Credence had braved his anxiety to sit out in public. It had been worth it to be so happy with Percival, who had managed to make them feel like they're the only two people in the world, even when they're surrounded by a roomful of strangers. Credence thinks it might be the happiest day of his life, perched on the final seconds of a horrible year facing nothing but the yawn of infinite probabilities laid before his feet. Nothing can be worse than what's already happened.

_Four….._

Because he has Percival at his side. Percival is beautiful in the contrasting glows of the firelight and the light from the TV. The cold blue of the screen cuts his features into sharp angles that are softened by the orange of the fireplace glow. The silver strands at his temples looks like moonbeams offset by the dark spaceblack of his hair. His eyes are a fathomless black in the dimness, warm and anchoring.

_Three…._

Credence wants so very badly to touch. To be given permission to touch. To have and to hold. Greedy greedy greedy. Gluttonous. Sinful. Disgusting. Wretch. Invert. Faggot.  _No_. No more of that. He pushes Mary Lou's recriminations away. They are not welcome in the new year.

_Two…._

Another shot of liquid bravery and Credence has enough courage to climb into Percival's lap. Percival, who is just on the right side of drunk enough to let him. Percival, who sighs as Credence dares to touch, pushing his fingers into his slicked back hair, disrupting its order. Percival, who only looks back with something that looks a lot like awe as Credence leans closer until their noses are bumping together. Percival, whose hands are shaking as they encircle Credence's hips to hold him steady. Percival, who looks as breathless with want as Credence feels.

_One…._

Elation sparks in Credence's chest like two flint stones striking when their lips meet, bright embers sparking into roaring flames that lick at his heart. The press of lips is unlike anything Credence has ever felt before, an electric feeling that he cannot get enough of. He presses closer, chasing after it like a hound after a rabbit, instinctively relentless and wanting.

Percival pulls away slightly, breathing harshly against Credence. His eyes are heady dark as he stares back at Credence, his irises thin rings around his wide-blown pupils. He chuckles when Credence whines, shifting in his lap to get closer.

“Happy new year, darling,” Percival murmurs, his fingers lightly inching up past the hem of his shirt to touch skin.

“Happy new year,” Credence whispers against Percival’s lips, and oh he was so, so wrong from just moments ago.  _This_ is the happiest he's ever been. This is the happiest moment of his happiest day.

Credence leans back in for another kiss, brave in the new year and more than a little drunk from the champagne and from Percival, exultant when Percival meets him halfway. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's never kissed anyone before so he follows Percival's lead.

He opens obediently when he feels the wet swipe of Percival's tongue against the seam of his lips. The hot slide of their tongues adds another pleasurable dimension to their kiss. Percival tastes like Moët and chocolate and Credence cannot get enough.

Credence feels full to bursting from both the joy he feels and the _finally finally finally_ that overwhelms his thoughts. He isn't sure what to concentrate on; there's so much happening and everything is so _amazing_.

There is Percival's lips against his, his tongue in his mouth, his thumb brushing along the sensitive skin at the crest of Credence's hip that sends shivers up his spine, the echoing pound of his heartbeat where their chests press together.

It's all nearly too much, in the best way possible. Better than anything Credence could've hoped for and he wishes they could stay entangled together like this forever. It's so so _good_ and Credence can feel the heat burning in his veins alongside the pleasure. The combined sensations are enough to tear a low needy sound from his throat when Percival sucks lightly on his tongue.

Percival moves away slightly at the sound of Credence’s moan. The grip on his hips tighten as Percival manhandles him to bring him impossibly closer until they’re pressed crotch to crotch and Credence can feel the answering hardness beneath his own. He barely manages to contain the strangled gasp punched from his lungs as Percival watches him intently with dark eyes.

“This is what you do to me, my boy,” Percival rasps, his voice gravel-rough as he leans down to press kisses along the length of Credence’s neck. His stubble scritches along the sensitive skin there, making Credence moan again. “You make me lose control until I can’t help myself anymore. Even though we need to talk about this. We are _going to_ _talk about this._ ”

Credence shivers and nods vigorously, clamping his legs tighter around Percival’s waist, half afraid Percival is going to think better of this and stop. “Tomorrow,” he promises, his own voice tight and his head swimming from the potent mix of endorphins and alcohol. He pulls Percival back up for another proper kiss and they don’t talk again for a long while.


	12. Chapter 12

Percival knows he shouldn't have done it, but he's too stubborn to call it a mistake. He shouldn't have been so free with his touches but Credence was so touch starved and he hadn't been able to resist providing his boy any sort of comfort that he could.

But now he realizes the error of his ways. He should've stopped when Credence started looking at him like that. He's the responsible one and should've done the responsible thing. He doesn't have any right to a traumatized teenager that he has so much power over. A teenager who thinks he only likes Percival because he was the only one there and the one who had helped him when he had needed help the most. It's not fair to either of them.

Percival isn't so much of an idiot to not know what it means for both of them to have this sort of relationship. He knows he would be at risk of losing his job over sleeping with a student, whether that student still attends his school or not. Credence would be dragged through the mud and back, especially after the news of what had happened to him.

Pedophile. _Gold digger._ Sugar daddy. _Whore._ Those are the least of what they'll be called.

Percival doesn't much care if anyone is to throw those slurs at him but Credence doesn't deserve that kind of abuse or guilt of the consequences, not after everything he's already endured.

Not to mention, Credence deserves so much better than what Percival can offer. He deserves to be with someone kinder, nicer, _younger,_ someone who can give him everything. Someone his own age who can grow and learn with him. Not a bitter old man who doesn't know a healthy relationship even if it smacked him in the face.

He feels sick to his stomach thinking of how he had taken advantage of his boy while they were both inebriated. He shouldn't have given him that champagne. He shouldn't have encouraged Credence's advances. He shouldn't have kissed back.

Percival had had too much alcohol and not enough self control. When Credence had looked over at him with his head tilted against the back of the couch, exposing the length of his neck and his dark eyes glimmering in the low light, Percival had known he was fucking doomed. He had never loved anyone as much as he had loved Credence in that moment and it had shattered every bit of crumbling resolve he possessed.

At the very least, Percival had had enough self control to stop before it went too far the night before. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, tearing himself away from a wonderfully responsive and pliant Credence after a few kisses, with the buzz of alcohol flowing in his veins and liquid heat burning through his body.

He looks down at Credence tucked against his chest now, still asleep in his arms. He's so beautiful in the morning light, the sight of him makes Percival’s chest ache and he's unable to resist placing a soft kiss on those plump petal lips. Credence moans slightly from the disturbance of his sleep, lashes fluttering as he blinks awake.

Percival is met with wide guileless eyes that are staring adoringly at him and he knows he doesn't deserve that kind of look. He should be nipping this at the bud before it gets any further, before he hurts Credence more with his own callousness and selfish desires. But he can't bring himself to even move away when Credence looks at him like that. Like he's hung the moon and stars and planets and it _hurts_ to have that worshipful gaze on him.

But the thought of not having this at all hurts even more. He has to be the strong one though, the one who can be responsible enough to spare them both further pain. He has to do it swiftly, cut it off at the quick.

Credence reaches his uninjured hand up slowly to trace along Percival's jaw and temple, tentative as though afraid he'll be rebuked at any second. His fingers tap gently along his skin, moving further up to smooth out the furrow between Percival's brows.

“Please don't go,” Credence says plaintively when Percival starts to pull away. And how can he resist a request like that?

“I'm right here,” Percival replies, even as his mind screams at him to stop this before it goes any further. _Don't fucking do it, you weak fool_. His body betrays him by pulling Credence closer, who sighs contentedly against his clavicle.

Despite knowing the dangers of allowing their relationship to change, Percival isn't able to deny Credence when he tilts his head up, silently asking for a kiss but too shy to voice his request.

The feeling of Credence's lips against his is no less intense in the daylight than it was in the warm dark of midnight. Percival doesn't think he can ever tire of this, the pleasure of having his boy so close. His deliciously responsive boy who arches up to press closer into the kiss, his tongue slipping into Percival's mouth to meet his own as he makes needy little noises in the back of his throat.

“I thought it was a dream,” Credence murmurs, looking slightly sad when they pull away. “I didn't think something so good could've actually happened. I kind of _still_ think it might be a dream,” he adds wryly with a small laugh.

“It's not,” Percival promises, automatic. He can't do it. He's so weak. He doesn't have the strength to save them both while he still can. It would break both of them if he tries. “I have you.”

Credence smiles, bright and joyous. “You do have me.”

It's so easy to have the conviction to protect this new thing they have in their sunlit home with Credence in his arms. But Percival knows when the consequences come, and they will, it will take everything to keep them together. He'll always put Credence first, no matter what, even if it will be at his own expense.

As though sensing what Percival is thinking, Credence's happy expression dips slightly into concern. His hand comes up again to rest along Percival's cheek, thumb grazing over the rasp of his morning stubble.

“I know what you're thinking,” Credence says. He's frowning slightly but he hasn't looked away from Percival yet and Percival is so proud of him for that simple little thing. “You're thinking you're going to do something stupid like back away because you think you're taking advantage of me. You're not,” he says firmly.

Percival opens his mouth to protest, the words dying on the tip of his tongue when Credence’s expression shifts from slight consternation to fierce determination.

“Please don't leave me already,” Credence says before he can reply. His voice is soft and slightly shaking but firm in his conviction. “I've only just got you. I know I'm selfish to ask for this on top of everything you've already given me but I think it's less so if you want it too.”

Percival doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't know how to tell Credence he isn't selfish at all. Percival is the selfish one. He should never have let this happen. But looking at Credence, who is staring back with earnestness and determination, he can neither bring himself to regret anything or tell him no.

“Is this us talking about it?” Percival asks instead with a wry quirk of his mouth.

“Yes,” Credence says stubbornly. He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly. “You have some weird hero complex going on where you think I only lo— like you because you saved me. Let me tell you right now that that's not the case at all.”

Percival sighs, feeling the pain cresting in his chest like a wave until he's nearly drowning with it. He should pull away now, step back.

Credence continues, his voice shaking more now, “please don't do this.” Credence's hand moves from Percival's cheek to his neck as he wraps his arm around his shoulder, holding tight as though he can physically keep Percival close with sheer force of will. “Back when I had nothing, all I could do was want, and think about what I wanted. So you have to believe me when I say I _know_ what I want and all I want is you.”

"Oh, my boy," Percival breathes, the pain in his chest clawing like a living thing at his throat, choking his words and ragging his voice. "You only think so because I was the first to show you kindness. You don't mean this. I'm not the be all and end all and I'm not all there is for you in the world."

"But you _are_ my world," Credence says so softly, Percival isn't even sure he hears him correctly.

"I'm not," Percival says anyways, heart in tattered shreds. "The world has so much more to offer you than a broken old man, love."

Credence visibly steels himself as he pulls away to sit up, eyes flint and spine iron. "What if I don't want anything else the world can offer me? What if this is all I want?"

"Is it?"

"Yes," Credence replies, voice heavy with conviction. "The world has no better offer. Its best offer has always been you and always will be."

"You don't know that," Percival insists, a last ditch effort. "You're so young. Something better will come along sooner or later. Someone who can give you what you need and be what you need."

Credence purses his lips and and the stubborn set of his jaw has Percival aching. How far his boy has come.

"That's ridiculous," Credence says. His voice is thick with unshed tears and Percival can see him trying desperately to hold them at bay. "And you don't get to decide for me what might or might not be better. You yourself said that,” he adds with a watery laugh. “I get to decide what's best for me. And you are it. The only thing you get to decide is if you want me at all."

When did his boy become so strong, he wonders with a swell of pride. And of course he wants him. How could he not want his sweet, beautiful, amazing boy? But he has to think about what's best for the both of them.

Percival's eyes are burning and he has to blink rapidly as he pulls Credence back down on top of him.

"Please," Credence whispers and that single word is enough to break the both of them.

Percival's control snaps clean in half as he leans up to capture Credence's lips in a desperate kiss. It feels nothing like their first or second or third or eleventh kiss. This is all desperation and passion, a release of the pent-up emotion he feels for Credence, so overwhelming he feels as though he's breaking apart from the force of it.

Credence is equally desperate, clinging to Percival like a lifeline. He's shaking in Percival's arms, a trembling mess as he gasps against him until the kiss is little more than a clash of lips and teeth and tongue.

Percival was foolish to think he can ever willingly give this up. Give _Credence_ up. As though he isn't willing to fight tooth and nail for every scrap of happiness he can give Credence, as though he really thinks he wouldn't fight the world for _them_. To  _have_ a  _them_.

“We're going to make this work,” Percival promises, reaching up to wipe the tears leaking from the corners of Credence's eyes, each drop burning like acid against the skin of his thumb when he thinks about how he's the one who caused them. “You're going to tell me no when something's not right and you're going to tell me when you're not happy about something. Promise me.”

He waits for Credence's shaky nod of confirmation. “Promise.”

“We're going to go as slowly as you need. I don't ever want to hurt you,” Percival says, bringing Credence's hand up to press a kiss on his palm. “We're going to do this properly. Credence,” Percival begins, his voice deadly serious despite the smirk tilting his lips. “Will you go on a date with me?”

The question inspires a surprised bubble of laughter from Credence who ducks head against Percival's neck briefly to hide his flaming cheeks. He rubs his hand over his face, scrubbing at the last of the tears.

“Yes,” Credence replies when he resurfaces, his face still endearingly pink. The beam of his smile is blindingly bright in the morning light.

Percival can feel his own mouth curving up in an answering grin. Credence's joy is infectious and it's just enough to eclipse the foreboding dread Percival feels settling deep in his gut, for now.

*

Credence doesn't know what came over him or where the courage had come from but he's glad of the timing of it all the same. Maybe there was still residual alcohol left in his system from the night before or maybe there was some remainder of the magic of midnight still bolstering him even in the bright light of day. Even just a few days ago, he never would've expected to have the guts to make his desires heard like that. But this is something he would do anything to keep and that's enough to make him brave.

Despite his courage in the morning, Credence is nervous now in the evening, so much that he's nearly vibrating on his toes as he stares at the pile of clothes on his bed. He's never had so much before, but much like everything good in his life, it's all thanks to Percival. He runs questioning fingers over the fine materials, smooth cotton and soft cashmere and thick wool, wondering, _what exactly does one wear on a date_?

Credence has never been on a date before, doesn't even know what happens on such a thing and the reminder of his lack of experience makes anxiety rise in his throat, thick like bile.

What if he wears the wrong thing? What if he does everything wrong? What if he embarrasses Percival? What if this will finally make Percival realize Credence isn't good enough and not want him anymore?

Credence forces himself to push the negative thoughts away and diligently tries to keep them at bay before the anxiety builds into another episode. Percival had said they would make this work. Credence has to trust him.

He returns his attention to his clothes. Feeling ridiculous, he plucks a soft charcoal grey sweater from the pile and throws it on with form fitting slacks. There's nothing he can do about his hair, which is still in the process of growing out from Mary Lou's horrendous cut, so he fingercombs it into something less than terrible and hopes it'll be enough.

Percival is waiting for him in the living room, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit that has Credence feeling simultaneously hot under the collar and overwhelmingly underdressed. He almost runs back to his room to change when Percival extends a hand, beckoning.

Percival's eyes are dark and heated when he pulls Credence close, and _oh_ , how has he never noticed the way Percival looks at him before?

Percival's gaze is burning with intensity as he stares at Credence, his eyes wide and the look in them reverential as though he's looking at something unnervingly beautiful. Credence doesn't think he deserves it, but the gaze makes him feel hot all over, from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair until he feels as though he's about to burst into flame.

 _It's the heat of hellfire licking at your toes, boy_ , Grindelwald and Mary Lou hiss together in his mind.

 _No_ , Credence reminds himself fiercely, blocking them out. _It's not._

“You look gorgeous,” Percival breathes, pressing a kiss to Credence's forehead.

“It’s not fair,” Credence mumbles as he ducks his head to hide his blush, still unused to praise.

“What’s not fair, darling?”

Credence shivers slightly, delighting in the endearment. He reaches up to smooth his hands along Percival’s lapel, brushing away invisible lint from the dark wool, still disbelieving that he's allowed to touch now. Credence can feel Percival’s grip tightening on his hips as he trails his fingers along the fabric.

“It's not fair you look so good,” Credence replies, suddenly shy. “You're wearing a three-piece and I'm so underdressed.”

Percival quirks a brow at him before reaching up to undo the knot of his tie and pulling it from beneath his collar. He steps back slightly to shrug out of his suit jacket and unbuttons the first button of his dress shirt in a series of quick motions that has Credence's mouth running dry as he stares.

“There,” Percival says, smoothing down the fabric of his vest.

“You didn't have to do that,” Credence splutters, feeling flustered at the gesture. He tries not to stare too hard at the taper of Percival's waist or the peek of skin the open collar of his shirt offers.

Percival laughs, helping Credence into his coat before donning his own. “Don't worry, darling. We're not going anywhere overly fancy. That,” he waves a hand at the pile of his suit and tie on the couch, “was just to impress _you_. Did it work?”

Credence blushes the entire drive to the restaurant.

Percival pulls up to a tiny little French bistro tucked between a pharmacy and a construction site, so small it's blink and you'll miss it. Credence counts a total of eight tables through the front window as they walk up, all of which sit empty despite the time being a prime dinner hour.

He turns to Percival thinking they might've gotten the wrong place; this one looks closed. The lights are dim and there doesn't seem to be anyone inside but Percival smiles reassuringly and takes his hand to lead him in.

They're greeted inside the restaurant by a smiling hostess who leads them towards the back to the only table that has arranged place settings and disappears again after handing them their menus. The tiny table is lit with a candle in the center, the flame bouncing in a merry flickering glow. The rest of the place is lit in a dim warm light that's cozy and unobtrusive.

“Why are we the only ones here?” Credence asks in a whisper, feeling as though he should be quiet in the otherwise empty restaurant.

Percival smiles at him and reaches across the table to take his hand. Credence doesn't think he'll ever get enough of the feeling of Percival's thumb sweeping across the bone at his wrist or the feeling of how small his own hand feels within Percival's. He shivers slightly and almost misses what Percival says.

“Sorry, what?”

Percival's smile widens and he looks so devastatingly handsome, Credence's chest aches. “I said, this place is not usually open on New Years but I requested a special favor from my friend who's the chef here. I know you don't like crowds and the places that _are_ open today will have tons of people. I'd rather you be somewhere where you can be comfortable and enjoy yourself. Besides, the food is excellent here and I can think of nowhere else I'd rather take you for our first date.”

“Oh,” Credence breathes, suddenly wishing Percival is sitting closer instead of being all the way across the table. Which is ridiculous. They're barely a meter apart but the white tablecloth feels like a gulf between them.

As though sensing his thoughts, Percival moves his chair closer until they're sitting side by side and that barely feels like enough. Credence would make himself at home in Percival's lap if it isn't so highly inappropriate in public. The temptation is especially great since they’re the only patrons in the restaurant. As it is, their legs are tangled together as Percival loops an arm around him, pulling him close enough for Credence to tuck his face against Percival's shoulder.

Credence nuzzles against Percival's neck, feeling a little punch drunk when he hears Percival's breath hitch in his throat. Unable to resist, he gives the tantalizing skin before him a small lick before Percival catches his chin between his thumb and forefinger to stop him.

“Behave,” Percival growls as Credence bites back a delirious giggle. Credence watches as Percival’s gaze drops to where he’s biting on his bottom lip. “What am I going to do with you?”

Before Credence has the chance to reply, they’re interrupted by the chef who had walked out of the kitchen to greet Percival. They pull apart as Percival stands to clasp his friend’s hand.

They have a short conversation in rapid-fire French, a language Credence hadn’t known Percival speaks. But then again, there is much he needs to learn about Percival, he realizes. He snaps out of his musings when Percival introduces them.

“Credence, this is my good friend Chef Michel Durand,” Percival is saying as Credence rises from his seat to shake the chef’s hand. “Michel, this is my boyfriend Credence.”

 _Boyfriend_. Credence barely has the mind to return greetings as the chef shakes his hand with a wide smile and a merry, “ _enchanté_.” He's still reeling from the fact that Percival had just referred to him as his _boyfriend_ and he has to retake his seat when his knees nearly buckle. Percival moves to stand a little closer and settles his hand on the back of Credence's neck, drawing soothing circles along his skin with his thumb.

If Chef Durand notices or has any poor opinions of them, he doesn't say anything as he returns to speaking with Percival in French.

Credence tunes them out, still turning the word _boyfriend_ over and over in his head. He's bewildered and _ecstatic_ that Percival called him that, especially to someone he considers a friend, as though he's _proud_ of Credence. As though he's showing off.

Credence doesn't think he'll ever get over that, nor can he even begin to reconcile with the thought that Percival is his boyfriend. _Percival is his boyfriend._

“Do you like duck?” Percival asks when Chef Durand leaves them to return to his kitchen.

“I've never had duck before,” Credence replies, still feeling like he's a million miles away floating on a cloud.

“Would you like to try it? They have excellent duck here.”

“Okay.”

Duck turns out to be the best thing Credence has ever eaten. He notices that it tastes even better when Percival offers it to him from his own fork, tilting the morsels against his lips and watching with heady eyes as Credence takes them between his teeth. The sauce is more flavorful when he tastes it from Percival's lips and the foie gras is more delicious when he licks it from Percival's fingers.

They're both breathless by the time they finish their food and Credence would be embarrassed by his own wanton shameless displays in public if he isn't so desperate to have Percival's hands on him.

Chef Durand comes out to say goodbye as they're leaving and hands Percival a paper bag with a smile at Credence and another string of rapid French.

And then they're back out into the cold walking towards the car. Thinking they're finally going home where Credence can kiss Percival as much as he likes, he's surprised when Percival continues down the avenue from the bistro instead of turning back.

“Where are we going?” Credence asks.

Percival gives him an enigmatic smile and replies with a simple, “you'll see.”

Soon, they're pulling up beneath a small underpass and directly in front of them is a familiar pier that stretches out over dark rippling waves of water. The city lights glimmer across the bay, bright like yellow glowing diamonds and seeing them for the second time is no less breathtaking than the first.

“Is this—?”

“Yes,” Percival says, pushing the front seats back to make more legroom. “The same pier I took you to before.”

“Our pier,” Credence murmurs in wonderment, crawling over the gearshift, frantic to get closer.

Percival catches him by the waist and helps swing him into his lap, steadying when Credence nearly stumbles and face plants into the dash. He draws him close until they're pressed together chest to chest.

And then they're kissing, noses bumping together as Percival places a hand on the back of Credence's neck to gently guide him. Credence clutches at the front of Percival's coat, wishing he can crawl closer. He's always wanting to get closer, to get as close as possible to sate the heat that burns for Percival.

The first touch of Percival's tongue against his is electric, sending a shiver down Credence's spine that wracks through his entire body. He clamps his legs tighter around Percival, pressing as close as he's able. They only pull apart when they have to breathe again, and only reluctantly then, foreheads pressed together as they gasp for air.

Credence still finds it hard to believe he can have this, this fragile, beautiful new thing he has with Percival. There's a small niggling doubt in the back of his head that this will all come crashing down on them soon, that he's not meant to keep this despite Percival's promises.

Credence has no doubt Percival would keep true to his promise and they would try their hardest, but will it be enough when the whole world will try its best to tear them apart? It's going to be devastating when this gets ripped away from him, but until then, he wants to believe he's good enough to deserve this, at least for a little while longer.

“Did you mean it?” Credence asks quietly when he finds his voice again. His heart is racing in his chest as the question tumbles from his mouth, his palms sweaty as he's suddenly gripped with nerves. He's almost afraid of the answer. “Did you mean it when you called me your boyfriend?” he clarifies at Percival's confused look.

“Of course I did,” Percival replies, still looking slightly confused. “I do. Was it too much? Is that too fast? I'm sorry, I should've asked you first but I got ahead of myself. I'm always getting ahead of myself when it comes to you—”

Credence cuts him off with another kiss. He’s so filled with joy, he feels as though he's about to burst, his worries banished for the time being. “No,” he murmurs against Percival's lips. “It's perfect. It's _perfect_.”

“Good,” Percival replies with a smile that crinkles the edges of his eyes. He reaches up to brush back a stray strand of hair falling across Credence's forehead.

“Good,” Credence echoes, his answering smile so wide his cheeks are beginning to hurt.  

“Oh,” Percival exclaims suddenly. He moves away with another peck on Credence's lips, twisting around to reach for the paper bag from the restaurant he had tossed onto the back seat. “I nearly forgot. I got you something.”

Credence sits back slightly, confused when Percival pulls out a lumpy foil packet and a plastic soup container. The tantalizing smell of fryer grease and something cold and sweet fills the cabin of the car. “What is that?”

“Ice cream and French fries!” Percival declares proudly.

Credence is still perplexed. “But we just ate.”

Percival shrugs, already tearing into the packages. “This is dessert, babe. This is the best food combination in the world. Trust me.” He dips a fry into the plastic container and offers it to Credence, the little wedge of potato covered in sweet vanilla ice cream.

He finally gets it. “Like pizza and hot chocolate,” Credence says, smiling as he leans forward to take the offering. “You had promised last time that we would try fries and ice cream next.”

“I keep my promises,” Percival says softly, putting the food packages aside to wrap his arms around Credence again, meaning much more than just fries and ice cream.

“I know,” Credence replies, and he believes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the amazing responses as always! You guys are the best!


	13. Chapter 13

Sometime during the night, Credence had crawled into bed with him. Despite Percival walking him back to his own room after their date, Credence had quietly slipped into Percival’s room sometime after midnight, hovering uncertainly by the foot of the bed.

“Nightmares,” Credence had whispered guiltily as though he felt bad about having them.

Percival had sat up in bed and pulled down the covers invitingly. “C’mere, sweetheart,” and Credence had went, tucking himself against Percival and fell asleep in minutes.

Percival knows he shouldn't foster this dependence from Credence, shouldn't keep encouraging his boy to rely so much on him. He knows it's unhealthy but if he's really honest with himself, he secretly thrills in it.

Percival has a primal possessive need to provide for Credence and to give him everything, be his everything. He thrills that _he's_ the only one to provide for Credence, that Credence needs him so much.

At the very least though, he probably shouldn't be encouraging Credence to come into his bed so often, not when it's so hard to resist temptation to kiss and to touch. _It's only to sleep_ , he has to constantly remind himself. _No funny business_ , not even when Credence presses so sweetly against him as though unaware of the effect he has on Percival.

Stubbornly, Percival refuses to be the one to dissuade him from this habit, especially not when it feels so good to wake up with his boy in his arms. But now he has to wake up for work and he's so _comfortable_ , he really doesn't want to disentangle himself from Credence's embrace.

“Sweetheart,” Percival groans, way past the time he's usually up, “I need to get up.”

“No,” Credence mumbles sleepily, burrowing tighter against him and Percival is so, _so_ tempted to call in for another vacation day.

He settles for pressing a kiss into Credence's hair and relishing the warm tangle of their bodies together beneath the blankets for a few more seconds before reluctantly extracting himself and sitting up. Credence whimpers and rolls into the warm spot he vacated and Percival nearly gives in to the temptation of staying home and crawling back under the covers.

Credence glares up at him from beneath sleep-heavy lids and downright _pouts_ as he tugs Percival's pillow into his arms, silently asking why he's already out of bed at six in the morning.

“I'm sorry, my boy,” Percival murmurs, stroking a hand down the length of Credence's back. “I have to go back to work today.”

Credence mumbles something incoherent into the fluff of the pillow and Percival has to lean in to hear him. Credence takes advantage of his proximity to tug him back down with slim arms wrapped tight around his shoulders and long legs curled around his hips, unbalancing Percival who nearly falls onto the smaller body beneath him.

“I almost crushed you,” Percival accuses. There's no heat behind his words despite the glare he levels at his unrepentant boy who only curls tighter around him like a four-limbed octopus.

“Don't care,” Credence mumbles sleepily. “You make a nice blanket.”

“Credence,” Percival says in his best teacher voice that usually gets unruly students to obey. “I can't stay in bed.”

“Shhhhh,” Credence tells him, stubbornly scrunching his eyes shut. A sleepy uncoordinated hand nearly slaps Percival across the face in its attempt to press a finger against his lips. “Blankets don't talk.”

Percival huffs an amused breath against Credence’s neck and allows himself to relish the moment for a while until Credence’s proximity becomes unbearable. He’s all too aware of how close he is pressed to his boy, from chest to tangled legs, his groin slotting perfectly into the space made by the bracket of Credence’s hips. They’re too close and it’s putting a strain on Percival’s control. It is far too tempting to just grind down, especially when he can feel Credence’s morning erection pressed against his stomach and his boy is thrusting up in small shallow thrusts, rubbing against him through their sleep pants—

“Credence,” Percival growls warningly, grabbing at his thighs to halt the motions. He grips hard at the fabric there, wanting nothing more than to tear the pants off so they can touch skin to skin.

The action only serves to tear a low moan from Credence, who clutches tighter at his shoulders and practically _whines_ a stuttering, “ _P_ - _please_ , Percival.”

It's the first time Credence says his name out loud and the tone and context absolutely _wrecks_ Percival, shreds his self control until he's holding onto the last vestiges of it with tooth and nail. “We can't, Credence,” he protests weakly.

“Why not?” Credence's eyes are open now, staring directly up at him. “I thought you wanted me.” There's a petulant frown wrinkling the bridge of his nose and a pout tugging down the corners of his lips that Percival wants badly to kiss away.

Really indeed, why not? He can easily just reach over to the bedside table for his phone and shoot a quick text to Lucy to let her know he won't be coming in this morning either and she can handle his work for another day. He can stay in bed all day and ravish his beautiful, needy boy.

But does Credence really know what he's asking for? Is he even ready for anything more than kisses and innocent touches? He doesn't want Credence to have any regrets so he has to be the responsible one and stop before things go too far, as tempting as it is to give in to Credence's demands.  

Percival is the first to look away for once, hating to deny his boy anything. “Of course I do but now is not the time, love,” he mutters with one last chaste kiss.

He pulls away before Credence can protest and practically runs into the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him.

Percival turns the water as cold as he's able to stand it, letting the icy pelts of water freeze his erection away. He washes himself perfunctorily, making sure to avoid touching his own cock, which is still flushed and hard after Credence's demands despite the cold shower. It takes so little for him to react when it comes to his boy, his own desires gripping him so firmly, Percival has a hard time doing the right thing.

Credence is a sad pile of blankets when Percival walks back into the room. He's curled tight in a small ball in the center of the bed. The sheets are pulled up over Credence's face but the sliver of forehead Percival can see is beet red.

Percival can feel his heart plummeting to his feet. He's upset his boy. He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed to card gentle fingers through Credence's dark curls, hoping to coax him out from the pile of blankets. It takes a while but Credence finally emerges, his face still pink and cheeks wet with tears.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles to the middle distance and Percival's heart cracks.

“Sorry?” He asks, his voice thick. “Whatever for, love?”

Credence makes an aborted sound in his throat and shakes his head.

Percival sighs and gently tugs until Credence willingly comes into his arms but still refuses to look at him. He's still curled tight into himself even as Percival strokes a soothing hand down the line of his back, and little by little, Credence relaxes against him.

“Credence,” Percival begins. “I just don't want you to have any regrets.”

He can feel Credence shaking his head against his shoulder. “I won't,” he mumbles into Percival's neck, the puff of warm air on his skin making him shiver. “Not with you. Not ever.”

Percival tightens his hold on Credence and the overwhelming sensation to give in returns. With the last of his strength, he presses a lingering kiss to Credence's hair and gently extracts himself from his boy. “We’ll talk more about this today when I come home from work. And we'll—” Percival swallows heavily, “we'll go from there then when you're ready. I promise.”

Credence raises his head to give him a long look, his cheeks still pink and his eyes misty with unshed tears. “Okay,” he says, leaning up for a chaste press of lips.

“Newt will be by later to start on your lessons,” Percival says as he dresses for work. “Is that okay?”

He startles slightly when Credence walks up behind him and trails slim fingers over the line of his shoulders, flattening the creases of his suit there. He turns slowly to gather Credence in his arms, whose mouth curves into a slow feline smile and Percival once again feels the urge to stay home. He watches heatedly as Credence fixes the alignment of his tie, smoothes his hands over his lapels, flattens the lay of his collar, and Percival has to reach up to take his hands to still them. He brings Credence's hand up to press soft kisses to the knuckles and fingertips.

Percival feels overwhelmed with the simple domesticity of Credence fixing his suit in the morning. He’s nearly incredulous that something so small has the ability to bowl him over, simply because it’s being done by Credence, but he barely cares about the implications of what this says about him because Percival wants it every morning, always.

“That sounds good,” Credence is saying, and Percival has already forgotten what he’d asked before Credence started running long fingers over his chest. “What time can I expect him?”

“He should be by around ten,” Percival croaks, heart in his throat still. “You can sleep in for a bit more.”

Credence hums before blinking up at him with a moue of sadness turning down the corners of his mouth. “I don’t like sleeping without you anymore,” he admits softly, and Percival _has_ to kiss him for that. He ends having to skip breakfast, and he’s still nearly late for work.  

The first thing Lucy tells him when Percival walks into his office is that Principal Picquery has requested a meeting with him first thing that morning. He sighs, already knowing it will be a long day.

The trek from his office to hers feels like a walk to the gallows. He already has some inkling of what she wants to talk about, and old friends or not, she is still his superior in this instance, and this is about one of their students. He trusts that she would do no less than what is required of her to protect the school, and that is the one thing Percival will always respect, regardless of the consequences.

The stare Picquery trains on Percival when he steps into her office feels far too sharp, as though it's flaying him open, peeling away the layers of his armor and walls, exposing all of his innards for her perusal. He knows she can see it, if not now, she will find it in a matter of a few more seconds. There is no hiding, not from her.

"Percival," she sighs, and in that instance, she’s not Principal Picquery. She’s Seraphina. "What have you done."

It's not a question.

 _Nothing_ , is the instinctive response. A lie. He won't lie to her and he won't deny Credence so he stays silent. He is not _ashamed_ of Credence.

Seraphina sighs again. "You did it. You went ahead and fell for that boy."

"His name is Credence."

"Excuse me?"

"I said. His name is Credence." Percival meets her eyes defiantly. The beast living in him that would die to protect Credence roars its challenge.

Seraphina gives him another long hard stare, not backing down as he knows she wouldn't. "Percival," she begins gently, and he hates that pitying tone of voice. He balks from it, hating that it's coming from her of all people. "You are my oldest and dearest friend and you know there is little I wouldn't do for you."

He nods jerkily.

"I just have to ask," she continues. "I need to be sure. Is he— _Credence_ worth it?"

Percival stares her down until she looks away first. "He's worth everything to me," he replies, his tone brooking no room for argument.

Seraphina nods. "Okay then." She sighs. “You know the Board will have their own investigation on his case, considering he’s a student of the district and his abuse was found by his teachers. They would be negligent _not_ to, and you’ll be one of the first to be interviewed, considering your close proximity to him throughout all of this. And when they do, please for fuck’s sake, Percival, _learn to lie_. Not about him, if that’s what’s bothering you, but _for_ him. I know you have very little sense for self preservation, but when the Board interviews you, don’t let them know how far this all goes—”

“ _Obviously_ , Seraphina,” Percival interrupts angrily. “I’m not an idiot.”

She glares back haughtily. “Oh, Percival, you’re really usually not, but I can tell you will be, for this kid.”

He doesn't really have a reply for that, because Percival refuses to admit to Seraphina that he already is, and always will be an idiot for Credence.

\---

Mr. Newt Scamander is a strange man, Credence thinks, but a nice one. He’s quiet and soft-spoken, and his eyes are always averted as though eye contact is too much for him, and Credence understands.

He also sometimes think having to meet someone's gaze is too much, but with Percival’s help and his new friends, he's learning to keep his head up. He is learning how to identify kindred spirits, and Mr. Newt is definitely kindred and kind.

The doorbell chimes at a quarter to ten and Credence opens the door for Mr. Newt who stands on the doorstep, wrapped up in a teal coat and smiling at the ground. He carries a battered briefcase in his hand, one so big it can pass as a suitcase.

“Hullo, Credence,” he says, tilting his head up slightly but still not quite looking at him.

Credence smiles and lets Mr. Newt inside, who immediately gets attacked by Hephaestion’s enthusiastic slobber. He notices mildly that while Mr. Newt might not like meeting people's eyes, he has no problem meeting Hef’s, even enthusiastically taking the dog’s head between his hands to tell him repeatedly he's a good boy.

Credence had set up all of his school books at the dining room table with a laptop borrowed from Percival but Mr. Newt takes one look at the arrangement and shuffles back into the living room. Credence follows curiously and finds Mr. Newt rewinding his scarf around his neck.

Credence isn't quite sure what to do in this situation. Has Mr. Newt found him unsatisfactory as a student already and is already refusing to teach him before they try?

“Right, um,” Mr. Newt is saying, his eyes trained on the street outside the window. “If you would, Credence, please go get your coat. It's such a nice day out, it would be a shame to spend it in Percival’s dreary house.” He says the last bit with a crooked smile as he pulls up his collar.

Credence lets out the breath he doesn't realize he's been holding. He doesn't usually like to go out into the crowds without Percival, but he can tell Mr. Newt might not be one for other people either. Trustingly, Credence fetches his coat and scarf and follows Mr. Newt out the door, with only a little bit of trepidation simmering in his belly.

Mr. Newt takes him on a long winding path through the neighborhood, occasionally glancing at a map on his phone to make sure they're going in the right direction. He mumbles to himself, largely ignoring Credence, but he doesn't mind.

The day is bright but chilly, and Credence has never been so grateful to have a warm coat and scarf to stave off the biting winter wind that nips at every inch of exposed skin. He remembers all too clearly how it feels to have that razor wind rush in between the threadbare fabric of his old coat, settling the iciness deep into his bones until he feels as though he might never be warm again. But he doesn't have to worry about that anymore, Credence reminds himself, but old habits of worrying about everything are hard to break.

The arching gate Mr. Newt leads them to is unfamiliar, and Credence has no idea where he is. He feels as though they've walked forever, winding through the quiet streets of Percival's neighborhood before heading even further out into unknown streets he's never walked before, and they're standing now in a large sprawling park.

Credence thinks it's more than a little strange, to be taken to a park in the dead of winter. While it's a fairly mild day for January, it's hardly good enough weather to have a picnic, or whatever Mr. Newt might have in mind. But that doesn't seem to be the case when he strides through the park entry and keeps going, following the paths carved between the grass.

Credence is no less confused when Mr. Newt takes him to the zoo. “Mr. Newt—”

“Just Newt please, Credence,” he interrupts. “I'm already having an existential crisis turning thirty, I don't need the extra reminder of being old,” Newt says with a chuckle.

Credence swallows around a surprised bubble of laughter. “I'm sorry—Newt,” he tries again, “but why are we at the zoo?”

Newt barely looks at him as he pays both their entry fees, despite Credence's protest that he has his own money. “One of your courses are Advanced Biology. What better way to learn than on the field,” Newt says mildly. “It's so much more calming to be around animals than people sometimes though, isn't it?”

Credence is still slightly confused but he nods and hurries after Newt who's already standing at the penguin enclosure. The zoo is nearly empty on a winter weekday and they're among the only visitors there, watching avidly as a marine biologist feeds the penguins from a bucket of small fish. Newt is nearly entranced as he watches the little birds dive for their lunch.

“Percival told me you researched animals,” Credence begins haltingly, unfamiliar with how to start a conversation. “What kind of animals do to you study?”

Newt hums thoughtfully, not looking away from the penguin enclosure. “All kinds of animals,” he finally replies, “but I have a concentration on endangered species. It's so important to propagate life, to keep creatures from disappearing because of human folly and greed. So many of them are going extinct because of the atrocities we commit.”

“That's true,” Credence says softly, thinking of the atrocities humans commit not just towards animals, but to each other as well. He knows a little too well of the people who think they have the power and right to hurt something they deem below them.

Newt seems to understand what Credence isn't saying and remains silent as he turns towards the seal exhibit. “Did you know that the Inuit people of Greenland ferment auks inside of seal skin?” Newt says, voice mild as though he's starting a lecture. He continues, not expecting Credence to reply, “They would pack the birds in the skins with seal fat and sew them shut and then leave the birds in there for months. They have a feast to share the bounty when the auks are ready. They would cut open the skins and retrieve the fermented birds. The auks are typically eaten raw, usually first by sucking out the liquified innards.”

Credence feels mildly sick by the time Newt finishes explaining. No, he had not known that, and he didn't think he ever would have if Newt didn't randomly bring it up. He's not sure whether there was a point to being told this tidbit, or if Newt is just talking to himself. He's already moved on to the next exhibit as Credence leans over to read the plaque about seals, and he has to hurry to follow.

Newt stops in front of the polar bear enclosure and frowns. “Poor boy,” he mutters, staring balefully at the polar bear lounging on a fake ice cap in the middle of a small round pool. “This is not nearly enough space for a magnificent creature like you.” He sighs deeply.

“Polar bears,” Newt begins, using his lecture voice again, “are not, in fact, white. They have transparent fur, which reflects visible light from their environments and appears white. Their skin is actually black beneath their fur. Fascinating creatures, really. And we’re losing them in great numbers, many of them starving to death and losing their natural habitats because of melting sea ice. A tragedy, and one that’s preventable,” he murmurs sadly.

They spend the rest of the morning at the zoo, with Newt leading Credence from one exhibit to another. He always has an interesting little-known fact about each animal, and Credence finds himself relaxing as they spend more time together. He didn’t think he would ever be quite so relaxed around anyone other than Percival, but he finds himself feeling quite serene around Newt, possibly because Newt is far more interested in the animals than he is in Credence. It’s calming to not have any attention focused on him, to not be asked how he’s feeling, which Newt hasn’t done even once, and to not be coddled, and treated as if he’s fragile despite the best of intentions.

It feels _good_ to be treated as if he isn’t broken. As if he’s _normal_.

The winter sun is just setting behind the low residential buildings surrounding the park when they start making their way home. Credence barely feels the cold anymore, even when the temperature drops as night quickly falls. He feels warmer knowing that he’s lucky to have people like Newt and Miss Tina and Miss Queenie to call his friends, and Percival to call _his_.

Percival, who is pacing a hole in the living room floorboards when they return.

Uncaring of Newt’s presence, Percival scoops up Credence in a tight hug, his arms stiff with tension as he holds him. Credence presses his cold cheek to Percival's warm one and sighs softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw before gently backing away.

“I'm fine,” Credence says before Percival can say anything.

Newt is clearing his throat quietly when they pull away. He pulls a stack of books from his battered briefcase, textbooks on biology and tomes on endangered species, and hands them to Credence. “I'll see you tomorrow, Credence,” he mutters as he packs up to leave. He tips his head as he passes. “Percival.”

Credence nudges Percival who remains stubbornly silent until the door closes softly behind Newt.

“Credence,” Percival begins slowly, voice strained and tight. “Do you have any idea how it feels to come home and not be able to find you? And not being able to reach Newt on top of that? Do you know how _worried_ I was?”

Credence resists the temptation to quail under Percival's quiet fury and raises his eyes to meet his gaze. He knows Percival isn't angry with him, but it's intimidating all the same to be faced with that anger, anger that is usually leashed and restrained around him as though he's too delicate to handle the brunt of it.

“I'm sorry, Percival,” Credence says quietly, proud of himself for keeping his voice steady. “We were at the zoo and we lost track of time. Newt’s phone must have run out of battery.”

Percival's brow jumps up incredulously. “The _zoo_? Why did Newt take you to the zoo?”

Credence shrugs. “I think it was his way of getting to know me in a comfortable setting. Anyways, I'm fine. I'm okay, and you don't always have to worry so much about me.”

Percival sighs a deep shuddering breath and reaches out for Credence again. He goes willingly, lets Percival tuck him close and brings his arms up to wrap around his neck until they’re pressed cheek to cheek again. Credence tentatively strokes his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of Percival’s neck, thrilling in the shiver his small action elicits.

“I’m always going to worry about you,” Percival says, pressing each word into the sensitive skin of Credence’s neck. “You're precious to me, Credence. You're the most important person in the world to me.”

 _Oh_ , Credence thinks, overwhelmed. He leans back slightly to look Percival in the eye. He presses trembling hands to Percival's chest, tracing his fingers along the line of his collar and moving down to play with the first button on his shirt.

“So show me,” Credence whispers, his voice a soft sigh.

Percival closes his eyes and doesn't say anything for a long time. When he looks up again, his eyes are dark and nearly all pupil. “Okay,” he says, taking Credence by the hand. “Okay.”


	14. Chapter 14

Percival doesn't know what he's done in this life or the last to deserve this, but he's deliriously delighted to have it all the same: his Credence in his bed, pink-cheeked and tousle-curled and swollen-lipped. It's the most beautiful thing in the world, and Percival feels so, so _lucky_ to even come close to this perfection.

“We were supposed to talk about this first,” Percival tries, a last ditch effort—at what? Pushing Credence away? Maybe it's his last offer to let Credence walk away from this, if he really doesn't want it, and Percival would let him. It would destroy him to lose Credence, but it would be infinitely better than forcing him into anything he would regret later.

He had been frantic when he couldn't find Credence at home, had been ready to tear apart the city to find him. Had very nearly taken Newt’s head off when they stepped through the door, because he had been so fucking _worried._ But now Percival knows Credence is much stronger than he gives him credit for, is stronger probably than him.

Percival loves Credence so fucking much, and can only hope Credence comes close to feeling the same, but how can he possibly? He tries to bite back the words and not say anything. It's another pressure he refuses to burden on Credence. He will not make him feel obligated to reciprocate. Percival will take what he can get and hope he's enough for Credence.

The look Percival gets from Credence for his offer is one part annoyance and two parts incredulity.

Credence leans back slightly and frowns. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I want this. Do you?”

“I—yes—”

“Okay,” Credence says. “We talked about it. That was all that was needed to be said,” he adds as he pulls Percival back down over him and continues working on his shirt buttons. “We’ll have a discussion about your well-meaning but misplaced chivalry later.”

Percival laughs, thinking back on what Queenie said on Christmas Eve. He's so impressed and _amazed_ by his boy and he laughs until he's silenced by Credence pulling him down into a heated kiss. Credence is getting better at kissing, slower and less overly eager, but Percival cards his fingers through his hair to gentle him anyways, slows the kiss until it’s a soft press of lips. He wants to make this last, to make this as good as possible for Credence, who deserves the world and so much better than him, and yet.

Credence is trembling confidence beneath him, his body shaking but his gaze is determined. He follows when Percival pulls away, wanting and eager and it brings a bubble of joy high up in Percival’s throat until all he can taste is the happiness this wonderful, amazing boy inspires in him. He doesn't think he's ever felt so happy in his life than he does now, with the feast of Credence laid out before him, and Percival hadn't known he was starving until he's been granted this permission to sup.

Everything feels _right_ now that he has this. This magnificent person who is stronger than anyone he's ever known, lovelier than anyone he's ever seen, and someone he loves more than he's ever thought he could. Who is all _his_.

Percival kisses him again, and again, pressing worshipful lips to Credence's bright red lips, and to the tip of his blushing nose, to the high peak of his forehead, and to the sharp crest of his cheek. He can't get enough of him, doesn't think he ever will, can never tire of this. This simple _joy_ of having Credence in his arms.

And Credence, who never ceases to surprise and amaze Percival, pushes up on his elbows to return the kisses, sighing breathily when Percival’s lips graze the column of his long neck. Percival thinks he can lay worship there forever, content to find absolution in the line of Credence's throat and sip communion from the hollow dip of his collarbone. He would stay there forever if his boy isn't tugging him insistently back up for another heated press of lips.

“Percival, Percival,” Credence murmurs, and what a beautiful sound it is to hear him speak his name this way. Percival has never known the syllables of his name to sound like a hymn and he doesn't deserve this, not by any stretch.

“I'm here, sweetheart,” Percival murmurs, his hands quaking in shaking tremors as he presses his palms against Credence's chest to gently push him back down against the pillows. His fingers are trembling and skittish as he works on Credence's shirt buttons, clumsy and uncoordinated as though he's a teenager all over again, fumbling with inexperience. He breathes deep for calm, steadies his hands because Credence deserves better and tries again, finally undoing the row of buttons as his boy beams up at him, luminescent and beautiful.

Credence's fingers are no less steady as he raises them to Percival's collar, fingertips pressing briefly against his throat before they slip away and down. His healing hand is still clumsy because of the cast but it doesn't hamper his eagerness. Percival’s buttons are undone under Credence's careful determination and finally they're pressed skin to skin.

Percival wants to get as close as possible, to pull Credence in until he's safe between the lattice of his ribs where he can keep him safe forever, away from harm and pain. But he's more than happy to settle for this, pressing Credence down along the sheets. He can die from the pleasure of Credence arching up against him, legs splaying apart to make space for his hips, where he fits perfectly, slotted tight. And then Credence's fingers are at his waistband, now more confident than before and he makes quick work of Percival's fly before he can protest and Credence's hand is curling around him.

Percival bucks up into the touch, leaning up on his elbows to see where Credence is using one hand to stroke along the length of him, and the other to push his pants all the way down. Percival doesn't think he's ever known anything to feel as good as Credence's fingers around him, moving in small uncertain movements, but it's enough because his boy is trying.

“Credence,” Percival whispers against Credence's cheek, breath lodging in his throat. He has to gently halt Credence's hand before it goes too far, because as much as Percival wants this, wants _Credence_ , he would not be able to live with himself if Credence has any regrets.

“I want this,” Credence interrupts before he can say anything. “All of it. Everything. _Please_.”

And how can Percival ever deny him anything? He would bring down the moon if Credence asked. He kisses his way down Credence's throat and collarbones, pushing the open shirt off of his narrow shoulders so he can lay worship to his chest. It pains him to see the last of the lingering bruises, harsh reminders of what Credence went through just weeks ago. He presses kisses to each of them, watching enthralled as Credence gasps and arches up against his touch.

Percival is equally entranced, watching avidly as Credence tosses his head back against the pillows when he flicks his tongue out to curl against a hard pink nipple. He grins as Credence moans a litany of “please, Percival, _please_ ,” and ignores the hardness between his own legs as he lavishes the same attention on the other nipple before working his line of kisses down to the bracket of Credence's hips.

His fingers are shaking again as he helps Credence out of his pants and underwear, but finally, every barrier is gone and Percival can look. There is no vision as beautiful as Credence laid on on his bed, chest heaving from the rise and fall of his breaths, cheeks tinted pink and eyes obsidian dark.

Credence sits up jerkily when Percival dips his tongue in his navel before continuing down to suck open mouthed kisses against the crest of each hip. The loud cry ripped from Credence's throat is the most beautiful sound Percival has ever heard when he kisses along the length of his cock and swallows him down in one motion. He gently cradles Credence's thighs as he lets him thrust up into his throat, stuttering and inelegant.

Percival can tell from the way Credence's hips are bucking up against the gentle hold of his hands that his boy isn't going to last long. He hollows his cheeks and swallows around his cock as he looks up at Credence urging him to come. He obeys with a loud moan, a strangled broken cry of Percival's name, a sound he'll forever remember and cherish. He swallows and moves off of Credence, crawling up the length of the bed to lay beside him.

Percival pulls Credence close and presses a kiss against his temple. “I love you,” he tells him, his chest warm with the sensation of everything he feels for Credence.

“I love you too,” comes the soft reply.

Credence is bashful as he reaches up to tangle gentle fingers in his hair. He pulls Percival close for a chaste kiss as his hand travels down from the nape of his neck to his shoulder and down the front of his chest before reaching down to where Percival is still hard and aching.

“We don't have to do that, Credence,” Percival says, his voice quaking, splintering on the syllables of Credence's name as he reaches down to stop his hand. “We don't ever have to do anything you don't want to do.”

“But I want to,” Credence replies, voice shaded with stubbornness. “I want all of you. I want you in me. I want you to fuck me,” he says, his voice edged with vicious conviction.

“I—” Percival almost protests before he sees the look of determination on his boy. “Okay, darling. Okay.”

He prepares Credence slowly, bringing him back to the edge of pleasure with one dripping slick finger and then two. Credence is gasping by the time Percival has three fingers in him, moving gently to graze his fingertips against the swollen bud inside of him that has Credence arching his hips off the bed. Credence's eyes are wide as he pulls Percival down for a kiss that's little more than shared pants of breath and his fingers are curling again around Percival's cock.

The first slide inside of Credence is impossibly tight and Percival feels like he could come alone on the sensation of Credence clenching around him. He grits his teeth to stave off his orgasm and slowly moves until he's seated to the hilt before he has to stop, it's too much, and he pauses leaning on his elbows above Credence.

"You're going to be the ruin of me, my boy," Percival gasps, his voice a hoarse guttural scrape. He starts moving with slow circles of his hips when he feels some of the frantic urgency fade slightly.

Credence shivers deliciously in his arms, eyes blown wide and endlessly dark. "Call me that again," he begs. "Please."

Percival nearly dies, grasping desperately for any shred of his tattered control. "My sweet boy," he rasps, reverent, worshipful. "My darling. Sweetheart. My sweet beautiful boy. My miracle," he whispers the endearments into Credence's skin until his boy is a trembling mess in his arms. "You're doing so well, baby. You feel so good around me. Just look at you. Fucking beautiful. You're perfect."

Credence is pressing his hands into his face, gasping, and when Percival gently tugs them away, his breath stutters at the glimmer of tears he finds in Credence's eyes. Credence blinks and the tears start rolling down his cheeks, even as Percival reassures him with soft kisses.

Credence's voice is a trembling rasp when he says, "I wish you could've been my first. I hate that he took that from me—from us. I hate him. I _hate_ him."

Percival's heart fucking breaks at the anguish he hears in Credence's voice. He leans down to press his forehead against Credence's, stopping his movements so they can just breathe together for a short while, still connected.

"He didn't take anything from us," Percival says when he finds his voice again. "He didn't break you and he'll never have the chance to ever again. I have you now, and that's all that matters. I have you now, Credence. God, I love you so fucking much."

The words are torn from him, leaving Percival aching and exposed and far too honest. The tears drip faster at his words as Credence shudders beneath him, drawing deep gasping breaths in an attempt at calming himself. Eventually he gives up, letting the sobs wrack his body as he pulls Percival tight against him.

"Percival," he whispers, voice cracking in desperation. "Please."

"Anything, darling," Percival replies, kissing the tears away. "You can have anything."

"Make me forget."

Percival's heart breaks all over again. He wishes more than anything he could've killed Grindelwald with his bare hands, ripped him apart from limb to limb. He feels absolutely feral when it comes to Credence, would take down the world for him.

"Okay, sweetheart. Okay," Percival says as he gently pulls out.

Credence whines at the loss until Percival flips them so Credence is seated in his lap. "Take whatever you need, Credence," Percival says, bracketing his hands around Credence's hips, a gentle undemanding touch. "You can have anything," he repeats. "I have you."

Credence's eyes are wide and filled with awe as he looks down at Percival, leaning forward for a tentative kiss. It's a slow slide of tongues, full of adoration and worship as Credence sinks back down on him with a shuddering moan.

\---

Ma might've whipped it into him that sodomy is one of the greatest sins but this is the closest Credence has ever come to absolution. He feels worshipped with Percival beneath the straddle of his thighs, pressed up sweetly inside of him, filling him up until he feels as though he'll never be empty again.

The price of Hell is worth all of this, worth Percival's love because this is the first time Credence has ever felt whole. He feels cleansed. He feels scourged of the darkness that plagues him. He feels _holy_. And that—that is enough.

Credence feels as though he can float away at any moment, unmoored by the assault of sensation when Percival moves inside of him and he can't get enough. He can't get enough of Percival, of the feeling of their _togetherness_ , something he's wanted for so long and now that he has it, it's better than anything he could've ever hoped for. Looking down at Percival now, his breath strangles in his throat and he's overwhelmed.

Credence can feel where he and Percival are intimately connected, the thick line of Percival’s cock stretching him wide open. He moves tentatively, a small downwards shift of his hips that has Percival’s fingers grip tighter around his waist.

“Percival,” Credence murmurs, and it's the only word left in his mind. He can think of nothing else but the feeling of him, of finally having this, of the fullness that fills him with warmth.

Credence doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good before. He’s never felt so cherished and safe and warm and _whole_. He’s only remembers  being cold and hungry and hurting before Percival, before he was saved, and this is more than he ever thought he would deserve.

 _Sinners don’t deserve Heaven_ , Ma’s voice in his head reminds him viciously, and this, Credence thinks, this is probably the closest he will ever get to that. But what really, has he ever done to think he can deserve this?

The pleasure and warmth disappears on his next breath and Credence is suddenly left feeling cold and empty. Shame and inadequacy washes over him in unrelenting waves until he's shaking and everything is too _much._

How can he ever think he deserves Percival? He's so damaged and scarred and inadequate. Percival can have anyone he wants and why would he want someone like Credence? Why would he want someone discarded and used and disgusting and useless?

The sudden realization causes panic to bubble lava hot in Credence's belly, clashing with the ice cold dread that settles deep in his bones, until his stomach feels like a roiling sea boiling and cresting in a storm. He feels nauseated, unclean and disgusting and he knows he's damaged, he's wrong, he's tainted, and he's not _good enough._

Credence doesn't realize he's crying again until Percival is pulling him down and close to tenderly cradle his cheeks between broad palms. Gentle fingers are carefully swiping away the tears as sobs begin to wrack Credence's narrow too-skinny frame. He's reduced to a shuddering, useless mess.

He had thought he was strong enough to give Percival this. He was wrong. He had wanted this so badly, more than anything, to finally be with Percival.

He barely notices when Percival moves out of him to bring him down next to him on the bed, strong arms curling around his quaking shoulders. His head is gently tucked in the cradle of Percival's neck, where he inhales the familiar scent of cedar, spice and bergamot.

Credence hadn't even realized how useless he truly is until he fails at this—the only real thing he could offer to Percival and he remembers Grindelwald’s disgusting words. “ _You'll never amount to anything more than this, boy. This is all you're good for. And I'll make it so that man will never want you again_.” And he had succeeded. The Devil had won.

He can't even do the only thing he has ever been good for because as promised, Grindelwald had taken this away from him and Percival will never want him now.

Credence barely hears the soft words whispered against his ear and the warm presence curled around him until he finally gathers enough strength to pull himself out of the maelstrom of his thoughts. He fights and claws his way from the darkness like he hadn't been able to do to escape that dark basement Hell and returns to Percival. Percival who is staring wide eyed at him with wet cheeks and red rimmed eyes.

“Credence,” Percival croaks, his voice so full of pain, Credence hates himself for being the one to cause it.

There he goes again, hurting people. Always hurting and taking and useless, useless, _useless_. And this time he's managed to hurt the person he cares about most. That's how utterly, irredeemably _useless_ he truly is.

“Credence, sweetheart,” Percival murmurs, his voice trembling, “please come back to me. I'm so sorry. This is my fault, I'm sorry.”

Credence finally finds his voice after attempting to swallow several times. “Stop,” he murmurs, barely able to get his tongue around the single syllable.

Almost immediately, Percival freezes and moves away, putting distance between the both of them and Credence feels the surge of regret crest in his throat. He doesn't mean for Percival to stop touching him, only to stop apologizing. He can't bear the apologies, but he doesn't have the words to clarify anymore, not until he finds his voice again.

The lump in his throats feels like an immovable boulder and the dark thoughts that swirl in his mind batter relentlessly at his control even as he struggles to quell his sobs. He knows he's ugly as he cries, he knows he's blotchy red and his nose is swelling and runny. His bony shoulders are quaking as he draws stuttering breaths, trying to breathe past the heavy weight of his tears.

Credence gathers up what little strength and courage he has left and crawls across the bed to where Percival sits with his face in his hands. Credence gently tugs his hands away from his face and his heart breaks at the sight of the tears on strong, handsome Percival's face. He'd never seen Percival cry before, and he's done it now. He had done _this_. This is _his_ fault.

The only thing Credence can think to do is to swallow around his guilt and to brush Percival's tears away, ignoring the slow wet track of his own and curl his arms around Percival's neck. It's probably not enough, because _he's_ not enough. He's broken and damaged and he's always reminded of that by Ma and Grindelwald in his head but Percival doesn't deserve this.

Percival holds him tight and tries to apologize again until Credence whispers with another cracked, “please stop. Stop apologizing to me.”

Credence clings tight and buries his nose against Percival's neck, wondering if this will be the last time he gets to do this. If Percival will finally be done with him now, realizing he's not worth so much pain and endurance, not when Credence is useless at the most basic thing he can possibly offer. He swallows hard, finds his voice and tries anyways.

“I'm the one who should be sorry,” Credence says, hating how choked his voice sounds and trying not to let his tears drop on Percival's skin. He swipes angrily at his eyes with his uninjured hand and bites down hard on the meat of his palm to ground himself. He can feel Percival's arms tighten around his waist, still so diligently careful about touching his healing scars. “I'm sorry I can't give you this. Not yet.”

It takes Percival several moments to reply and the panic swells in Credence's belly again before the rough gravel of Percival's voice stops him. “There is nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he says lowly, his voice wet with tears. There's another edge to his voice, one of fury, and Credence is afraid to look up. He's afraid to leave the soft darkness in the nook of Percival's shoulder that smells like home. He doesn't want to see the anger.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Percival repeats, softer. “I should've known better. But more so yet, I wish I could _kill_ _him_ for doing this to you. I wish I could’ve been there to protect you. So you didn't have to suffer this.”

A low sob tears its way out of Credence's throat as more tears leak from his eyes. He's drenching Percival's neck now, but Percival doesn't seem to mind. “He did,” Credence wails.

“Did what, my love?” Percival's voice is shaking.

“He did break me,” Credence replies. “He broke me so much I can't even give you this. He was right. I'm so—worthless.”

“Credence,” Percival says haltingly as he pulls gently away. He gently takes Credence's face between his hands and Credence draws up whatever minuscule scrap of courage he has left to look up. He meets Percival's eyes and forces himself to hold his gaze and not look away.

Percival's eyes are still shining with unshed tears, sorrowful and pained, and his cheeks are still wet. Credence wants to reach up to wipe more of the tears away, but his hands feel heavy against his side and he can barely move.

“Credence,” Percival repeats, “you are _not_ broken. You are stronger than this. Stronger than him. You're one of the strongest people I know to survive what you did and honestly, I should've known better than to let this go so fast.” Credence starts to protest but stops when Percival shakes his head. “No, you're more important to me than this and I _love_ you. I fucking love you.”

Credence's breath catches and stoppers up his throat again and he can only bring his uninjured hand up to slide against the back of Percival's palm still pressed against his face. It flays Credence every time to hear Percival tell him that he loves him, and he wants so very much to deserve that love. The tears flow quicker down his face and he's such a mess. He's always crying, why can't he be stronger, like Percival believes and _stop crying_?

“We're going to get through this,” Percival murmurs. “You're the most important person in the world to me and I love you so much, sweetheart. We'll work through this. We don't ever have to do this if you're not able. That's not why I want you. I want you for you because _I fucking love you_. I can wait, Credence. You can take as much time as you need, even if it's forever.”

Credence is stunned that Percival would sacrifice and continue to sacrifice so much for him. He doesn't know what he's ever done to deserve this, or what he could possibly do now to be enough to deserve this.

Determination swells up warm inside of him and fills his chest, and he promises himself he will overcome what was done to him for both his and Percival's sake. So he may one day be unbroken enough to finally deserve Percival for real.

Credence can only nod in reply, trying his best to banish the dark thoughts from his mind as he tips forward against Percival, who automatically wraps his arms around him again. He doesn't want to talk about this anymore and he thinks Percival understands. He only wants to be close, to be warmed by Percival and try his best to _not think_.  

Credence tries to banish all thoughts from his mind as Percival pulls the blankets over them, curling tight and protective over him as though his physical body can shield Credence from the demons tearing at his sanity. And how Credence wishes he could. That his handsome knight Percival can slay these dragons and unlock him from the dark spiring tower of his own malignant making.

But Credence believes him. Percival has never lied and if he says they'll fight this together, maybe Credence stands half a chance after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took so long. It was incredibly hard for me to write, not only because of the subject, but also because this is a big pivotal point. I had debated for a long time where to take this, and almost caved under pressure to immediately go in a happier direction but that never felt quite right for the story I was trying to write. I'm sorry if this wasn't what everyone expected, but I'm trying to work the story towards where I need it to go.  
> Thank you to everyone who's stuck by Gods and Monsters, and welcome back.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr: [pineapplebread.tumblr.com](http://pineapplebread.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Two Wrongs Make A Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275036) by [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr)




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